The Fear of Rome
by dferveiro
Summary: COMPLETE! Tristan's freedom is taken a second time as Germanius saves him from death. But Tristan finds he would rather have death on a battlefield than servitude in Rome. A Tristancentric story of survival.
1. Default Chapter

**The Fear of ****Rome**

Germanius watched the knights as they took their papers, some albeit threateningly. The verge they were on—about to snap and kill—

And for what? A fallen pagan? He almost snorted aloud, and would have, if it weren't for the tension. His Roman guards glanced at each other as the dark-haired scout approached.

He inspected the box that held their papers, and then simply took it. Germanius almost smiled at the final defiance.

_Such pride. Such insolence._

They would all suffer. Most likely at the hands of the Saxons.

Germanius turned and left the Sarmatians to their grief.

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Morning came quickly, and with it, Germanius was ready to leave. Britain was a place he long thought should be abandoned. It was too uncivilized, and the barbarians that inhabited the land could slaughter each other for all he cared. They could slaughter the knights too. Or the Saxons. Or any variation.

Germanius pushed back the long arms of his robe and dipped his hands into a basin of water. Horton quickly came forward with a towel.

"Is the caravan ready?" Germanius asked. Horton bowed and nodded.

"At your command."

Germanius smirked and nodded.

"Let us return home."

No one came to bid him farewell, though he hadn't expected it of the knights. Arthur, maybe, but he seemed taken with the pagan Woad girl. As the bishop mounted his horse, amidst the caravan, he saw the knights riding ahead. A shout echoed across the land as the bald one honored Arthur.

Again, Germanius smirked. He raised his hand and motioned forward, and he and his caravan started out of the fort.

It didn't take long, he noticed, for the knights to abandon their flight and return to Arthur. It vaguely impressed Germanius. Such loyalty—and to a dreamer such as Arthur.

The Roman procession made it to the trees, out of range of the coming battle. Germanius held up his arm. A soldier came to his side.

"Bishop?" he inquired. Germanius gazed over the damp land at the knights, all waiting on the hill for the battle.

"Lead them ahead," he said. "Leave me five soldiers. We will watch the battle."

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Woads, Sarmatians, one Roman, and thousands of Saxons fought and bloodied the land. The fighting was fierce, the battle cries deafening along with the final shouts of death.

Germanius's lips curled in half disgust and delight at the scene before him. His eyes narrowed in on each knight.

Lancelot, the dark-hair adulterer, chose his opponent out of misguided passion. He fought to save the Woad woman, and Germanius watched the knight succumb to foolishness.

Gawain and the bald knight fought savagely, roaring in the blood they spilt. It made Germanius cringe, more because of their barbarism than anything else. The youngest knight, Galahad, fought effectively enough to stay alive, and quickly passed from Germanius' attention.

Arthur was heroic as always, stalwart, and completely predictable. Not far from him, though, stood the Saxon leader, and instead of fighting the leader of his enemy, he fought the dark, silent scout.

Germanius' curiosity was raised. Tristan, the scout, took great care in form and grace. He and the Saxon leader fought, their efforts concentrated and efficient. But the Saxon was winning.

That's when Germanius discovered Tristan's strength and weakness. He'd fought simply to fight, for the honor of battle, the honor of death. _A warrior._ That, in a word, was Tristan.

The Saxon stabbed Tristan in the side, a second wound after a slight cut earlier. From where he sat atop his horse in the trees, Germanius saw the pain on the scout's face. But he didn't give up. Even as the Saxon allowed him to pick up his sword again, or even run away.

"Ortegius," Germanius called forward one of his soldiers. "Kill the Saxon leader."

He watched ahead, waiting as Tristan slumped to the ground, ready to accept death. Suddenly an arrow shot by, and landed in the Saxon as he was about to bring the death stroke on the scout.

The Saxon leader fell. Tristan seemed surprised, making Germanius chuckle from his vantage point. The scout was too weak though, and fell back against the grass.

"Ortegius," the bishop called forward again. "Retrieve the scout. He's coming with us."

With that, the bishop turned back to the road, ready for home. And with him, he would take a warrior, who could serve Rome well.

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Death. How he was prepared for it—ready to embrace it. Odd, that death was the one thing he was ready to show emotion for. And not any person's death, not Dagonet, not his fellow knights, but only his own death.

He didn't expect death to keep company.

That was his first clue that perhaps this was not death—the voices around him. The pain in his side was Tristan's second clue.

He opened his eyes, seeing dark shapes of people he'd heard around him. They moved like water before him, swirling, merging, morphing. Tristan blinked, just as a sharp jolt of pain went through his side. He clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. The wetness of his own blood covered his left side, and a broad portion of it. But there was pressure over the wound, and circling his chest.

Tristan opened his eyes, and tried his sight again. He raised his head and peered at his side. Any armor he'd worn was off, as well as his usual tunic. He was left in a thin undergarment, and his pants and boots. Not even his dagger and sword were to be found. The pressure around his chest was some cloth of sort, stemming his wound from bleeding. He could see the strip of cloth peaking through the open neck of the shirt.

Which begged the question—

"We have no healer in our company, but you should live," came a voice. Tristan moved his eyes only towards the sound. It was a soldier, Roman, of course. By him sat two other soldiers. They stopped talking to stare at him.

Tristan looked from one to the next, and finally around the wagon he lay in.

"Arthur," he started. His voice croaked. "The Saxons—" Something caught in his throat, and Tristan coughed violently. His whole side shot up in protest, and his hands flew to his side before he could still himself.

"The Bishop says you should lie still," the same voice said. "The Saxons are not your concern."

_The Bishop . . . Saxons . . . Arthur_. Nothing connected in his mind. He only remembered fighting the Saxon leader, and failing miserably. That sky—gray with smoke and ash—and him staring at it, seeing his hawk fly away a final time.

Pain and fatigued made him succumb. Whether he wanted to or not, he would have to make sense of everything later.

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Germanius climbed into the wagon, his eyes on the still scout. His men reported that he'd awoken briefly, but sure enough, the scout was asleep now. Germanius waved away the soldiers, and they climbed out of the wagon.

The bishop sat by the man's side, his hands poised almost in prayer as he waited. Even unconscious, the scout was observant. He started to stir, and slowly his eyes opened.

If he was surprised at seeing Germanius, he didn't show it. The scout studied him for a moment, then looked away to the major gash in his side.

"You are in pain?" Germanius asked. Tristan didn't even look at him until he spoke, and not answering the question.

"It was you who shot the Saxon," Tristan said.

Germanius smiled. "Yes. One of my soldiers." He waited for the scout to say more.

"Why did you interfere?" His eyes bore into the bishop, trying to decipher him. Being under the scrutiny made Germanius smile again.

"You are different than the other knights," he said. "You fight to fight—nothing more or less. A man of such battle should not be wasted."

Tristan didn't react, or at least he didn't show anything. He merely looked away and laid a hand over his wound as he gingerly sat up.

"Thank you for the help," the scout muttered. The bishop doubted his sincerity. "I should return to the knights." A slight hiss escaped the scout's lips as his movement disagreed with his injuries.

"You're in no condition to leave," Germanius said. His eyes became cool and his lips curled in an all-knowing smirk. "Besides, there is much for you to see still. We head for Rome. A great city, a city that could use a man with your talents."

Tristan stared at the bishop, still no emotion on his face.

"Rome has used me already," he said simply. Germanius nodded, a smile spreading over his lips.

"Yes. And now what? You are a warrior. Arthur seeks peace, but there is always a fight, always a battle," he said. "Rome needs a warrior, Tristan." Upon hearing his name so directly, the scout tensed. Germanius waited.

"I've earned the freedom to choose my battles," Tristan said. It amazed Germanius how succinct the man's sentences were; everything was clipped and to the point. It amused the bishop. Tristan began to inspect his thin shirt, or more, his skin beneath for further injuries.

The bishop shifted his body and leaned back against the rocking wagon. The folds of his robe layered around him and pooled at his feet as he faced Tristan.

"Did you know," he began, "that some cultures demand that if you save a life, that life is yours?" He was pleased that the scout stopped his inspection. Slowly, the Sarmatian looked up. "I would expect a knight of the Round Table to honor such a deed."

"I've served Rome for fifteen years," Tristan said quickly, revealing aggravation that the bishop didn't expect. It delighted him, and he grinned to show it.

"My dear Sarmatian knight," he said, "I'm not asking you to serve Rome." He watched as his words hung in the air and slowly sunk into the scout. He waited for several moments, wondering if the scout would say anything in defiance or accept his fate.

When he remained silent, Germanius stood and gathered the yards of his robe.

"Rest, Tristan," the bishop said. "The journey to Rome is a long one."

* * *

a/n: I never liked it that Tristan died, so I thought up a different ending for him. This will be a nice action/drama, and I hope you all read it and review it! I haven't pre-written tons of this like I normally do my other stories, but I should update relatively quickly. 


	2. The Hawk

**a/n:** Please review! I love feedback--especially if it's positive!

**The Hawk**

Soldiers reentered the wagon and sat at the back of it. Tristan could only interpret it as a sort of guard over him. He didn't care for that at all.

He wasn't surprised that the Romans would try something like this now. He half expected his and the knights' service to be extended for much longer. But it startled him that he was singled out. And without any aid from the knights, and so weak as he was, he would not succeed in putting the Romans in their place.

The knights—had they survived? Something told Tristan yes, that their battle had been successful. He wondered if they all lived. He wondered if they realized he was missing, or even alive. He didn't hope for it, but it would be nice. . . .

The Roman soldiers laughed raucously, glancing in Tristan's direction. He merely stared at them with half-hearted effort. It was enough, for they turned their attention to the road that passed beneath them.

A faint cry outside drew Tristan's attention. No one would normally notice it, but it was as familiar to him as a friend's voice. He leaned forward, taking care not to pressure his wounds. His eyes stared intently at the sky, now broadly lit with the morning sun. _How long has it been since the battle?_ He pushed the thought aside as he heard the cry again.

_There!_ There she was, his hawk, flying high up in the sky, just beneath the clouds. _She's tracking me._ His heart panged with hopefulness and sadness at the same time.

"Sit back!" one of the soldiers yelled at him. Tristan flickered an annoyed glare at him, and the soldier pushed him hard. The scout fell back against the wagon's side, wincing at the jolt of pain the impact generated. The soldiers laughed, but he ignored them.

He had one friend who knew where he was. . . . Tristan closed his eyes, and willed his body to recover quickly.

He slept the rest of the day, his body draining his energy as it tried to heal itself. Noon came and went, along with dusk. It was blindingly dark when the bishop's caravan stopped.

The dampness of Briton and the cold night air quickly affected Tristan. Despite the stress it caused his side, Tristan crossed his arms and hugged in whatever warmth he had. His body was trembling, a fact he tried to hide as the Roman soldiers shot sideways glances at him.

They finally got out of the carriage as the bishop returned.

"Take him to the fire," he said with haughty authority. He grinned at Tristan. "Feeling any better?"

Tristan didn't grace that with a response. He just focused on getting out of the wagon without too much pain. As he walked to the camp's fire, the reality of how weak he was hit him. He stumbled to stay on his feet, even tripping once. He caught himself, but still had to kneel for a moment.

Soldiers flanked him on either side, men he recognized as the fleas who inhabited Hadrian's Wall for some time. They lifted him up enough to keep him moving. At the fire's side, they dropped him. Tristan uttered a soft groan as he fell to his knees. He gripped at the gash in his side and sat with his back to a felled log.

The fire radiated waves of heat at him, but it wasn't encompassing. Tristan still sat with his arms crossed, shivering in the night air. He was used to cold, the miserably winter and rain and snow that plagued this land. But he normally was dressed for it.

Germanius came to the fire and sat across from him. Soldiers meandered around the fire and the caravan. There weren't any civilians here, purely a military escort. It made Tristan wonder what became of the people he and the knights left when they returned to Arthur.

"You look cold," Germanius said. Tristan shot him a look.

"Where are my things?" he asked evenly, though he felt his voice shake with the rest of his body.

Germanius nodded at one of the wagons. "Your armor and weapons you do not need now, and your clothes were soaked in blood." He watched Tristan, obviously taking some pleasure at the scout's suffering. Germanius waved his hand in the air.

A soldier brought forward a wool blanket, tossing it at Tristan. Despite his pride, Tristan quickly tucked the blanket around him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Germanius grin broader.

He scowled to himself, cursing his weakness and his luck. _Why couldn't death have come like it should have?_ He knew the answer—Germanius. How he wished either he or the bishop was dead.

"A man so silent must be given to thought," the bishop commented over the fire. Tristan didn't bother looking at him. He tugged at the blanket, and kept his hand over his side.

"Tell me, Tristan." He hated how his name rattled off of Germanius' tongue. It almost bounced, like a sharp echo in the Italian's accent. "What do you think about?"

Only the fire answered, with the wood cackling as the heat lit it. Tristan tried to relax and stop shivering. Slowly, it worked, and he stared at the bishop that Arthur had once admired greatly.

"You cannot deny my freedom forever." The bishop jerked at his words. Tristan smirked at him. "I will return to the Wall as soon as I am well enough."

"You wouldn't get far, my young knight," Germanius chuckled. Tristan stared at him with hollow eyes. The fire glinted off them, and it didn't take long for the bishop to quiet.

Tristan leaned his head back, and waited for the night to quiet as well.

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"Still no sign of him," Gawain muttered with frustration. He hacked at the tall grass with his sword. Beside him, Bors clapped him on the back. But it was Arthur who spoke next.

"He is not among the fallen," Arthur said. "He was in the battle, I know."

"I saw him fighting," Galahad piped up. "He fought with the leader." The knights looked to each other.

"If Tristan killed him, why would he leave?" Arthur asked aloud.

The knights stood on the grassy hill, near Lancelot's grave. Each feared not finding Tristan's body, if he was slain. But the possibility that he was well, and yet not here, disturbed them. If he wasn't at Hadrian's Wall, where was he?

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The fearless knight fell asleep again. Germanius looked up at the dark sky, showing it his amusement. Tristan challenged him, basically made his intentions of leaving clear. And yet, he would never succeed.

The bishop knew this. He knew Tristan would resist for now, but eventually, the might and awe of Rome would tame him. But hopefully not too much, because his skills would benefit Rome first. They would help Germanius tame the threats within Rome. He himself probably wouldn't see it firsthand, but after some time there, someone would find Tristan, and discover what Germanius already knew.

Part of him longed to do what needed to be done, but as a man of the church, he could not. That didn't lessen his satisfaction with what he'd done or what would happen. No, he had several weeks ahead to see the scout's reactions.

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That familiar faint cry woke him. Tristan blinked quickly, trying to focus in the dawn light. He winced as his side reminded him of his injuries. But he ignored them as he saw the welcome sight soaring in the sky.

_Good morning,_ he thought with a faint smile.

He surveyed the camp. A couple of soldiers stirred, and slowly the rest of the camp started to wake. Tristan would have tried to disappear, but he quickly dismissed that for now. He could barely get to his feet.

In fact, as he tried, he only failed and went to his knees, the blanket from the night before falling around him. His hawk cried out above him, almost in alarm. Tristan gasped for breath, and slowly peered up at the dawning sky. She flew in long arcs through the air, circling the camp.

She cried out again, this time true panic as an arrow flew by her. Tristan's throat tightened and he quickly looked around.

Three Roman soldiers were scrambling to aim arrows at his beloved bird.

"Ten silver pieces to who kills it," one said. They laughed, and Tristan's heart dropped as they pulled back on the bowstrings.

"No!" It startled them to hear a shout early in the morning, and much more so from the usually silent scout. The soldiers paused, curious. They watched as Tristan got to his feet, ignoring all pain.

And then they chuckled and took aim again.

The pain disappeared and anger took its place. Tristan tore the blanket from him and took quick, long strides toward the soldiers. His eyes widened as their fingers loosened, ready to release the arrows.

Tristan hissed and flung the blanket at the soldiers. It startled them as it half-draped and blocked them from their target. Tristan glanced up at the sky. The hawk darted away from the camp.

He breathed a sigh of relief before turning his attention to the soldiers.

"You stupid cod!" a taller soldier yelled. He dropped his bow to his side, but still gripped it in his hand. The other two, about equal in height and overall appearance, started towards Tristan.

He stood firm, even though the pain in his side was returning. The tall soldier took quick strides at him. Tristan didn't move. The soldier swung the bow at him.

Tristan quickly ducked and spun out of reach. He bit his tongue when the pain flared through his body.

The two other soldiers converged on him. Tristan managed to evade their grasp, but his injury unbalanced him, making him stumble right into the tall soldier. The Roman seized him around the neck with one arm and used the other to hit Tristan in the side.

Tristan uttered a blunt yelp. He bit down again on his tongue as the two other soldiers came at him. The tall soldier shoved him to the ground, at his comrades' feet. Tristan rolled on the ground, coughing into the moist earth.

One of the soldiers kicked him solidly in the stomach. Tristan could almost feel his stomach hit his spine. He gulped for air, for control, and fell onto his good side. His eyes were squeezed shut, trying to reign over the—

Another kick to his stomach, followed quickly by something poking his wound. Tristan tried to mute a cry through his clenched teeth. He opened his eyes in time to see the tall soldier bring down the bow towards his side.

Weakly, Tristan blocked the hit with his forearm. It didn't feel much better, but it offset the soldier's attack. He kicked at his feet, felling the Roman, but not without suffering from the movement. Tristan saw the other two soldiers coming at him, yet he couldn't get his body to move in time.

They grabbed him by the hair and held a sword to his throat. Tristan felt the metal tip at his throat. _Do it. Just do it._

"Stop!" he heard nearby. "Do not kill him!"

_Germanius._ His commands were obeyed quickly. The soldiers dropped the sword from his throat, and with a shove, released him. Tristan fell onto his back, his chest rapidly moving as he took in air.

"He attacked us," the tall soldier grumbled. He stood and dusted off the dirt and grass from his uniform.

"I saw what happened," Germanius said. He glared at the soldiers. "Prepare to leave! You!" He pointed at the two soldiers who'd fought with Tristan. "Tie him in the wagon."

The soldiers grabbed him again and forced him to his feet. Again, he stumbled, and it frustrated him—he'd never been so affected, so clumsy, so weak.

A cry above him made the scout forget his anger momentarily. His hawk was well, again circling above but not as close this time. Tristan kept his eyes trained on the bird for as long as possible. He was denied the sight as soon as the soldiers pushed him into the wagon.

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Germanius reached for the back of the wagon and pulled himself into it. The caravan was moving along slowly in the heat of the day. He would make them hurry later.

His eyes searched the dark of the wagon, though not for long. The Sarmatian knight was situated in the back. Ropes anchored at the upper frame of the wagon tied each wrist. The height of the ropes made him have to sit up stiffly. Already his wrists were pink.

_So he's tried to test his bindings. _Germanius smirked, and moved to sit in front of the knight.

Tristan's eyes zeroed in on him. The bishop couldn't help but feel like a target. Even so, he steeled himself and lifted his chin. He was a bishop of the Roman church. He had nothing to fear.

He'd been waiting for this meeting. After seeing the knight leap in defense of his bird, Germanius knew what he had to do.

"How do you feel?" Germanius started with limited concern. Tristan shot him a look, and the bishop decided to dispense with the pleasantries. "It amazed me to see you so agile, fighting my men. You are very weak, but for that moment, you fought furiously."

He waited for something from the knight. The two men stared at each other. Germanius cleared his throat and continued.

"You care dearly for the bird. And you care for your brothers in arms," the bishop said, again lifting his chin a bit. Tristan cocked his head to the side, and that fueled Germanius. "Rome may have left Briton, but I can easily persuade them to return. Or to go to what people remain in Sarmatia."

He let the words hang in the air. Tristan's body was tense—he could see the curves of the muscles straining in his arms, the tight line of his jaw.

"I will make a deal with you, Tristan." The knight winced, but whatever caused it passed quickly. Germanius smiled. "You will come with me to Rome, willingly. You will do what I ask. And I will leave your knights alone. Briton will be left to Britons. And Sarmatia to Sarmatians."

He waited for something, anything. He stared at the knight, unwilling to yield or show any discomfort at the blank stares. For several moments, this battle of wills went on.

"Go to hell." Germanius almost jumped at the quiet insolence. Tristan just stared at him lazily, but the bishop could tell he would kill him if he was free.

Slowly, Germanius grinned. He laughed and stood in the ambling covered wagon. Tristan seemed unfazed, and that was starting to get to Germanius. Still laughing, he took one step towards the knight. Suddenly he quieted and struck the knight across the face.

Tristan's head snapped to the side. Germanius waited for a groan or a spark in defiance. But the knight slowly brought his head back to stare at Germanius.

Germanius felt his blood begin to boil. He lashed out again, striking Tristan across the face. His hand stung, but he wanted the knight to understand. He leaned close to the man's ear.

"You will do as I say, Tristan." He stood up straight. "Or anything you value, animal, town or man, will be destroyed."

The bishop left the wagon quickly, brushing off his hands. As he made his way to the head of the caravan, he admitted to himself that he wasn't sure who won that round.


	3. Fallen or Not

**a/n****: Thank you very much for the reviews! I'm quite pleased. I'd love to receive them steadily! **

**Just thought about some reviews/comments:** The point was raised about Tristan maybe talking too much. As much as he's seen as the silent knight, he's actually communicative when he needs to be. I don't seem him as a chatterbox, but he'll speak when necessary or when it suits his purposes. The movie only gives us so much to go on, and realistically, I've taken my view of the character and developed what could remain to be seen. That goes for more than his speech, and includes his behavior as well. I hope you all aren't disappointed. :o) I appreciate the feedback—it helps me as I continue to write!

**Fallen or Not**

Hadrian's Wall was getting back in order. The Woads and knights and townspeople worked hard to clean up the city, after the battle and after the Roman influence. For Arthur, it was hardly a difficult change.

After years of worshipping the city of his heritage, he woke up from the dream. He didn't hate Rome. But he certainly no longer desired to go there. No, he knew his destiny now. And he wanted to stay and build the city of his dreams, where people were equal, and peace could thrive.

The relative peace that was established still had its ghosts. Dagonet and Lancelot were dead, and Tristan . . . well, no one was sure.

"I still think he's alive," Galahad muttered over a mug of ale. Gawain grunted next to him. Surprisingly, he didn't have a mug of his own, but it was mid-day. The knights rested for lunch before going back to the work the city demanded.

"You're holding onto hope, boy," Bors grumbled before stuffing a chunk of chicken in his mouth. Arthur glanced at the youngest knight, seeing the familiar steaming rage on his face. A clap of Gawain's hand on his back made Galahad forget Bor's words.

Arthur stared into his mug. His reflection in the drink rippled back to him, and all Arthur saw was doubt. He sighed to himself.

"Why the long faces?" came a fresh voice. It was Vanora, balancing a baby on her hip and a tray in her hand. She passed the tray to Bors, who distributed a fresh plate of bread and drinks.

The men just grunted in response, Arthur included. Vanora chuckled.

"Well, I would think you'd want to see a familiar face." She pointed behind them to the roof top. The men quickly turned, and Arthur felt hope rise within him as he stood.

The squawk of a bird drew their attention up to the roof. For a moment, disappointment washed over them, but Arthur suddenly realized what they saw.

"Tristan's hawk," he said aloud. Bors, Gawain and Galahad stood by him, watching the scout's bird.

"I wonder where she's been," Gawain said. Suddenly, the bird left the roof and soared in a circle over the tavern square. Arthur's heart lurched for some reason, and his curiosity peaked as the bird circled twice and cried out.

The cries were loud, drawing attention. The bird was normally quiet and stealthy, much like Tristan. Abruptly, it changed course, and headed south.

Arthur frowned. He didn't want to see the bird go—it was a link, a remembrance of the scout. As if sensing this, or so Arthur thought, the bird halted and circled twice more. Again it cried out, and headed south.

Arthur exchanged looks with his men.

"Anyone feel like a ride?"

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Germanius swore something very un-Christian-like as he saw the riders approaching. Not only were they riders, but the bishop recognized the stance and form of the leader.

Arthur. He hissed an order to his favorite soldier, Ortegius.

"Shoot them if they interfere." He had no doubt that the soldiers would obey the order. Some of them knew Arthur, but their loyalties lay with Rome. Plus, the bishop's personal contingent of soldiers would make sure there wasn't even thought of dissension.

Germanius turned his horse to fall back to the wagon.

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Arthur realized following the bird probably wasn't the wisest thing, but something in his heart told him to keep it up. After a good two days of hard riding and trailing the hawk, they actually came upon something.

The hawk uttered a final cry and veered off as the caravan came into view.

The knights looked to each other, and continued forward. From the side of a wagon came Germanius, a man none of the knights liked. Even so, Arthur rode to the lead to meet the man.

The bishop waved with a smile.

"Arthur! You live!" he exclaimed. Arthur didn't believe the concern, but plastered a grim smile on his face in return.

"Bishop," he said with a nod as he slowed his horse down.

"You won the battle?" Germanius asked. Arthur nodded. He sensed his knights behind him.

"But not without casualties," he said. He felt his blood run quicker but willed himself to remain calm. "We lost Lancelot."

Germanius clasped his hands in front of him in some semblance of reverence.

"I am sorry to hear that, my friend."

The word 'friend' grated at Arthur. His teeth ground against each other. How he hated this man. He didn't think himself capable of feeling that way, but after so much death and misery, he wasn't above it.

"Tristan is missing as well," Arthur said, moving past the hate for now. "Have you seen anything?"

Germanius frowned and shook his head. "Nothing. Our travels have been quite peaceful."

"How quaint," Galahad muttered under his breath. Arthur shot a glance over his shoulder.

"Arthur," Gawain called out. He motioned for him to fall back with the knights for a moment, and Arthur did. The knights maneuvered their horses side by side, but their eyes never left the caravan.

"Something's fishy," Bors said.

"What if he killed Tristan?" Galahad hypothesized, his eyes fiery. Arthur laid a hand on his arm.

"Calm yourselves," he said. "We don't know if Tristan came here or somewhere further along this path."

"You're the one having us follow the bird," Galahad muttered. Arthur shot him a look.

"Look around," he said, pulling on the reigns. "And knights—be polite."

He didn't have much hope that they'd obey that, but he at least tried. Arthur turned back to Germanius.

"Bishop, tell me about Rome," he said, falling into line with Germanius on his horse. From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Bors, Galahad and Gawain fan out around the caravan.

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Tristan couldn't breathe, not with the Roman sitting on top of him. They'd gagged him, cut the ropes that tied him and thrown him to the wagon floor, and then they'd thrown a sheet over him. As added disguise, a soldier sat on him, as if he were a crate or supplies.

He tried to move, only to be rewarded with a jab to his ribs. Tristan grunted, and again was hit.

"Stay silent, scout, or the knights die," the soldier hissed.

_Knights?_They were here! Tristan at first started to struggle, but after repeated hits, he stilled. His chest heaved hard, trying to take in air with the weight of the lazy Roman on him.

He turned his attention to the noises outside the wagon. Horses danced around, galloping up the caravan line and back. He heard them circle around each wagon and cart.

He could utter a muffled cry, but something he heard disturbed him. It was that sound he knew in his sleep. The stretching of a bowstring, notching an arrow, and then silence as one took aim.

Tristan froze. Germanius wasn't bluffing. He _would_ kill the knights. Every soldier was probably on edge, waiting for the command. The foreign sense of helplessness came over the scout. He had no choice.

The soldier swore as a horse and knight sounded near him. The bow and arrow dropped to the floor and was kicked to the side. Tristan wished he could get his hands on it, but that wasn't possible.

The horse snorted at the open end of the wagon, and Tristan knew it was a knight who sat atop it. How he wished he could see! The blasted sheet over his body prevented it.

"Eh," he heard a familiar voice say. It was low and mumbled. _Gawain._ "You seen our scout anywhere?"

Tristan felt the soldier on him shake his head. "No. Did he desert you all?" Tristan stiffened, even as he felt the man's heel scoot back harshly against his stomach.

Gawain never answered, but several moments later, Tristan heard him move away. Tristan shut his eyes, wanting to make this whole situation disappear like a nightmare. Again, he wished for death on that battlefield, even at the hands of a Saxon.

Arthur was speaking with Germanius about mundane Roman things, no doubt a ploy to distract the bishop as the knights searched the caravan. _Search harder!_ Part of him wished for that. And part of him couldn't dare wish for that at the expense of another knight lost, or more than one.

It was maybe a few minutes more before the knights said goodbye and left. The fading sound of hooves galloping away depleted Tristan's hope.

It wasn't long after that when Germanius climbed into the wagon. Tristan could tell because of the dramatic sighs the man uttered. Immediately, the soldier moved away, and Tristan tore at the sheet. When he untangled himself from it, a sword was at his throat.

"Calm down, Tristan," Germanius said, the sword in hand. The scout, his hair tossed and scattered in his face, pulled away the gag and spat at the bishop's feet.

"Release me. I'll catch up with them," Tristan said, glaring at the man. He allowed his features to soften slightly. "I won't let them kill you either."

Germanius laughed openly. "I do not fear them, Tristan. Let them return, and I will cut them down." He stepped forward and backhanded Tristan. The scout saw it coming, but still fell on his side, wincing. He glared at Germanius and sat up.

"Bind him," Germanius ordered. The soldier moved forward and picked up the ropes that were cut. There was length enough left to tie him again, this time simply with his hands behind his back. The soldier bound his feet together too. He finished with a kick to Tristan's leg.

Germanius smirked at him. Tristan bit down on his tongue, pursing his lips together as well. The bishop turned to exit the wagon.

"Why are you taking me?" Tristan blurted out. He'd heard one answer before, but nothing that made sense to him. Germanius turned back, a gleam in his eyes.

"Rome is a difficult place, Tristan. You will make things easier there." That made little sense to Tristan, but that didn't stop him from glaring at the bishop. "You will begin to understand when we get there."

Germanius left him with the soldier, whom Tristan ignored. He scooted back so he leaned against the wagon's side. His side ached again, and he was feeling a little dizzy. He shut his eyes as his thoughts turned to the knights.


	4. Depths of the Ocean

**A/n: Thank you for the reviews! Please keep them coming!**

About "Briton"—I've noticed this is the old way of spelling it, and I thought it was the old name for the country. But I've found it's the way to refer to inhabitants of Britain. So my apologies—I'll correct that in my future chapter.

About Lancelot—yeah, I thought about including more mourning about him, but there's just too much to do and cover in this story! You'll see. ;o) Also, it really baffles the knights that Tristan could be alive, and yet is nowhere to be found. With Lancelot, there's no mystery. Not to be cold, but you know . . . Anyway, I appreciate these thoughts and questions. I hope you all don't mind that I answer them like this. It allows me to explain myself, and why (for the most part) I write what I do. Thanks!

**Depths of the Ocean**

The next day led them to the south coastline of the island. He'd seen the coast a few times, and even been on the ocean once. Now Tristan would be traveling by water again.

The soldiers and Germanius boarded a ship that seemed to be waiting just for them. They cut the bindings on his feet and led the scout to the ship. Tristan's side was healing somewhat, but that didn't make him feel ready to be defiant. He wasn't sure if he would anytime soon.

Germanius watched as Tristan was rebound at the feet and left to lie on the questionable floor.

"Rome could come with a wave of my hand, Tristan. That's all it takes, and everything in your life in Britain is destroyed." The bishop seemed to take pleasure in that grim reminder. He left Tristan to the darkness of the hull.

The journey began as rocky as possible. The waves were tumultuous, tossing the ship from side to side. In the depths of its hull, Tristan tried to sit up steadily. He leaned against some crates and tried not to focus on the movement of the ship. He emptied his stomach twice by the end of the day. There was a reason he was a knight, and not a sailor.

It was estimated that the journey by boat would last at least three weeks. Tristan tried not to think about that much as he sat in the dank hull. Water slowly started to seep in, and occasionally a sailor would come to pump it out, but no one seemed concerned that the knight was marinating in it, dressed in the same thin shirt and pants as when he first awoke.

Germanius visited after a week. Tristan was surprised the bishop didn't come more frequently, not that he missed the company.

"How is our fearless knight?" he asked, his voice cheerful enough that Tristan imagined what it'd be like to behead the man. He glared at him.

"We're in the middle of the ocean?" Tristan asked. Germanius nodded, a smile on his face at any vocalization from the knight. "Where could I really go?" He gave a nod to his bindings on his feet and tugged at those behind his back over his wrists.

Germanius frowned for a moment. Tristan held his eyeline.

"All right." The bishop smiled, but his eyes were cold. "But I warn you, Tristan. The whole ship knows what to do if you try anything."

Tristan showed nothing but boredom at the warning. The bishop left, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd changed his mind. Tristan hoped not; the seawater around him chilled his body and stung his raw wrists.

Two soldiers came for him. They nervously cut his bindings, and held their swords ready as Tristan stood. He grasped a wood support, trying to steady himself. His legs were weak and the rest of his body didn't feel much better. He stretched out his arms, recoiling slightly at the twinge of pain in his side.

"Go," a soldier said, prodding him in the back. Tristan glanced over his shoulder, but headed for the stairs.

Daylight spilled from the deck and Tristan half-shielded his eyes from the intensity. He stood on the deck with partially closed eyes, waiting for his sight to adjust. A brisk air whipped by him and ruffled his wet clothes and stringy hair.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" That pointed Roman accent left no question as to who addressed him. Slowly Tristan opened his eyes and took in the sight.

The ocean was deep blue with froths of white as the waves moved around the ship. The sun made the waters lighter blue at some points. A squawk of a bird made Tristan look around sharply.

It was a gull, a pair of them actually.

"Your hawk hasn't been seen since we left Britain," Germanius piped up. Tristan couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. He swallowed it though, and turned to the bishop.

"Where are my clothes?" he half-demanded. Germanius raised an eyebrow, but didn't fight him on his tone.

"There is a cabin ready for you, with your belongings," he said. Tristan glanced at the bishop abruptly. "But not your weapons."

Tristan almost smiled. _Of course not._ He stared back over the ocean. In the distance, he saw dark clouds. It was in their path. He frowned, but said nothing.

After some time, he asked for his cabin. He was pleased to find he had a decent place to stay, and without constant guard. His outer tunic and coat lay ready for him, as did a fresh shirt and his pack with another change of clothes. Everything even looked clean, which made Tristan smirk.

He discarded his thin shirt and studied his marred skin. The gash in his side had mended together. Surprisingly, it didn't even look infected. But the wound had been deep. He wasn't sure how he really survived.

Tristan breathed out a long breath and looked around the cabin. There was a small port window, letting in the light. A mirror and small desk sat in a corner as well, by a strange hanging cloth. _Bed_, Tristan thought. He vaguely recalled seeing such things below deck on his way up.

It wasn't a bad existence—not compared to the hull. Tristan frowned and stared at the small mirror. His face was pale, slightly green even. The queasiness in his stomach reminded him why. His hair was messed up more than usual. Tristan sat at the desk and watched in the mirror while he undid and rebraided parts of his hair.

His eyes drifted from his face in the reflection to his wrists. The skin had been rubbed away by the ropes. He shrugged off the observation. _Just another mark . . ._

That night, rain set in. The boat tossed from side to side again, and plunged forward and back. Tristan put back on the thin shirt, still dirty but suitable for now. He went up on deck.

It was empty except for a couple of sailors. He could tell they were eyeing him cautiously. Tristan didn't care. He felt the fresh rain fall down on him. He welcomed it, cleaning off the grime on him and rinsing through his matted hair.

The water dripped down his sides and over his face. Tristan swiped at it to clear his vision. It amazed him how much he couldn't see out here. Even on cloudy nights on land, he could make out details. But out here, he had to rely on sound. The only thing he heard was the waves crashing against the ship.

Tristan leaned forward against the railing, leaving the rain to beat against his back. The waves swelled high and quickly disappeared before rising up again. It was fascinating. The power out there . . .

_It could easily kill everyone on board._ He smiled grimly at the thought. Seeing Bishop Germanius drown . . . _not a bad idea._ Easier yet, he could just jump overboard now, and give Germanius no control over him.

It bothered Tristan that Germanius figured out something to hold over his head, something that was working quite well. What surprised Tristan the most was to discover he really cared about Arthur, his country that he would create, the knights . . . . _Since when did I have a heart?_

A large wave rose in front of Tristan. The scout merely stared at it and stood still. _If it swept over the boat and took me with it . . ._

Someone shouted behind him, no doubt a warning, but the wave crashed down anyway. The force of the water smacked Tristan against the deck and swept him across it. Seawater filled his mouth, and the saltiness of it made Tristan gag. The wave receded, spilling from the deck. The sailors shouted back and forth, and Tristan could see them hurrying towards him.

Suddenly another wave crashed down on the ship, and Tristan felt it slam him into the side of the boat. The rush of water lifted him slightly, up on the railing. The boat rocked, and Tristan felt himself falling towards the depths.

He closed his eyes and waited for the water to envelop him. Suddenly something caught on his arm, and it jerked as his body stopped falling. Tristan looked up to see one of the soldiers.

"Pull him in!" someone else yelled. The soldier was joined by another, and they pulled him upward. Tristan thought about wriggling from their grasp, but it wasn't the death he wanted. A gleam came to his eyes as he stared up at the struggling soldiers. With his other arm, Tristan grabbed one of the soldiers and let his body go slack. He pulled down, and sure enough, the first soldier teetered overboard. The fall caught the second soldier off-guard, and he quickly followed into the ocean.

The soldiers were still in their armor, a fact that made Tristan smirk when the men sunk beneath the waves. Death should always have a purpose . . . and taking two Romans with him gave him his. Tristan eyed a wave as it loomed near him, towering taller and taller. _Death . . . _Germanius could not warrant an attack on Arthur for such an 'accidental' death. Tristan smiled as the wave crashed on him.


	5. Mourning

**a/n**: Thanks again for the reviews and feedback. Please keep it up!

**Mourning**

The knights sat around the large round table. They already discussed pertinent business, but now lingered. Arthur felt sorrow again take hold of his heart. He looked at each man, each brother in arms who he hadn't led to death.

He wished there were more at this table now. But battle and orders hadn't been kind over the last 15 years. And they hadn't found Tristan. The hawk came back a day after their return to Hadrian's Wall. What that meant could only be guessed. And the only guess left was that Tristan was gone, either from this land, the world, or both.

Gawain shifted in his seat and took a final swig of ale. He finished it with a smack of his lips and placed the cup loudly on the table.

"Arthur, what of your wedding?" he asked. His question brought a light air to the men, and Arthur found himself sitting up straighter in his chair.

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Germanius stood closely to the edge of the deck, overseeing his soldiers as they tossed a rope around Tristan. It was like a noose, only larger. He sighed in relief as they pulled the rope, bringing Tristan in. The ship still lurched, but that wouldn't stop Germanius.

Tristan wasn't moving. He hung limply from the rope, and his body just thudded when dumped on the deck. Germanius frowned and knelt by the scout's side.

"He's not breathing," the ship's captain said from behind him. Germanius rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I know," he said. He raised his hand and slapped Tristan across the face, hard.

Nothing. He pursed his lips and raised his hand again. The slap was harder this time, and even in the rain sounded across the deck. Water spurted from the knight's mouth, and he rolled to his side as he coughed it from his lungs.

Germanius stood and watched the knight carefully. Falling off the boat in the middle of the night was not a common incident, and Germanius meant to discover exactly what the knight was up to.

Tristan's eyes opened. He stayed on his side, coughing once more before he glanced around. His eyes met the bishop's. Slowly, he shut his eyes again.

"We lost two men, Bishop," Ortegius said. Germanius raised an eyebrow and peered at Tristan.

The scout said nothing. He just rolled onto his back and let the rain fall down on him.

"Take him to his cabin," Germanius commanded. "And lock the door."

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They dropped him on the floor and left. Tristan heard a key being turned, and he knew he'd be here for awhile.

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. It was moving, or so it seemed. The feel of the ocean rocked him to and fro. He blinked, and sat up. His clothes dripped with rain and seawater. A nice puddle of water surrounded him.

"Just like the hull," he mused. He stood and pulled off his wet clothes, opting for those nice clean and dry ones set aside earlier.

Death cheated him again. He remembered that massive wave coming down on him. He'd just watched it and calmly waited. He didn't actually remember being pushed under the water by the force. The only thing that came next was coming to again with Germanius at his side.

Tristan eyed the weird hanging bed before precariously climbing into it. It wasn't terribly kind to his back, but it reminded him of sleeping in a tree. As a scout, he'd done that every now and then. However, the bed swung with the ship's movement. His stomach churned.

Tristan tumbled to the floor as he tried to get out of the thing. His hands clutched his side and stomach.

He opened his mouth wide, taking in air slowly, steadily. His stomach still churned. _Not again_, he pleaded in his mind. He hadn't gotten sick in a few days, and didn't really want to again. His stomach was empty anyway. The last time he ate was . . . _last night?_ Once a day, usually, but he hadn't really kept track. It seemed though that one didn't need food or drink in his belly to warrant vomiting.

The salt in his mouth irritated Tristan. He turned to the side and spit out what he could, then fell on his back again.

He thought Britain was hellish.

The sea was worse.

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Germanius knew Tristan wasn't innocent in his accident at sea, but it didn't bother him too much. He knew the knight was bound to test restraint. He just wouldn't allow it anymore.

He kept the scout locked in his cabin most of the time, only allowing him to come out when the Roman soldiers were armed and vigilant. Tristan acted like he didn't see them. He would just go to the ship's side and lean on it. He'd look out for awhile, then turn and stare at the other side of the ocean. Never once did he utter a word.

The sailors talked about the scout, curious as to why this dangerously-kept man would be going to Rome, and not sentenced to immediate death. If he was being guarded all the time, surely that meant he'd committed a heinous crime. Germanius didn't bother to correct them. Fear had its uses for now. Better to fear his knight than sympathize with him.

Tristan finally surprised him with a request.

"I need to practice the sword," he said, his face as blank as always. "You want me because I fight. I haven't touched a weapon for almost three weeks. Any longer and I'll be useless."

Germanius' jaw dropped. He'd never heard so many words from the scout's mouth all at once.

When shock subsided, he waved for Ortegius.

"Get him a practice sword," he ordered.

For the rest of the journey, Tristan spent a few hours each day practicing. He sparred with the soldiers too, and bested each one. There were moments that Germanius thought one of his men would win, but then Tristan would dodge a blow with such grace and fluidity that his men didn't see the potentially fatal strike coming.

It only strengthened Germanius' resolve. He was right—Tristan was a warrior. As Rome's port came into view, he knew he brought with him something powerful.


	6. Roma

**a/n:** Wow, so you guys are a tough crowd. I'll admit, the last chapter wasn't the most exciting, but it was necessary to get us to this next one. Well, I hope you all like this one. Personally, I'm excited about this one and the ones to come—there are some fun things coming up. :o) Please let me know how you like it—review!

**Roma**

It was the smell that caught his attention first. That strong, almost unbearable stench of fish, smoked meat, onions and human sweat permeated the air at the port. It reminded Tristan of the small markets set up at Hadrian's Wall, or in larger villages. But this was multiple times stronger, and hence that much worse.

His eyes roamed over the merchants and all the types of food they offered. Strange meats and sea creatures, odd nuts and green vegetables he'd never seen before . . . Tristan passed it all as the bishop's procession headed through town. Fresh wagons were loaded with what they brought from Britain. One of the wagons was more of a hand-carried bed, which Germanius rested in. Eight men—slaves, really—bore the burden of the bishop.

The soldiers formed a rectangle around the scout, and even though he walked with his hands bound in front of him, the soldiers' swords were drawn.

He couldn't focus on that long. A line of strange beasts passed him on the street. He peered over his shoulder at them—tall animals, a light brown color, with a strange, round snout and large bumps on their backs.

Suddenly the roar of another animal caught his attention. It was a fierce, sharp roar, and it demanded respect. Tristan saw the animal being carried in a large cage by a procession that crossed in front of Germanius's, It was a cat of sorts, but black, and bigger than any wolf that stalked the forests.

A scuffle distracted him next. Several men gathered around two children. They all seemed to be fighting over something, but Tristan couldn't tell what. The men hit the children, and each other. He saw a short figure fall to the dirty road.

The intensity of the sun disappeared quicker than any cloud could move. It made Tristan glance up at the sky. He stopped in his tracks.

The soldiers behind him yelled at him. One jabbed the hilt of his sword in Tristan's back.

"Move, Sarmatian!" he ordered. Another chuckled.

"He's never seen buildings like this."

Tristan resumed the pace, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the building. It was taller than any building he'd ever seen. Large stone columns appeared to support a spectacular roof, which was domed and etched with marvelous designs. Giant statues stood in front of the building too, and some of them spouted water.

"Wait till he sees the Coliseum," he heard a soldier snicker behind his back.

The overwhelming sights started to dull his reactions, and Tristan just took to flickering his eyes here and there to observe this . . . Rome. It certainly was larger than any city he'd ever known. And it was beyond different.

So far, though, he'd not seen anything to warrant the praise Arthur poured over the city and its people. The citizens stared at Germanius's procession, specifically at the scout. His strange garb drew their attention. He was overdressed for the heat, and his gruff appearance did little to disguise him. The Romans were cleaner, dressed in rich colors and fine materials. Even the beggars seemed better off than those he'd crossed in Britain. The air dripped with aristocracy, pride, and arrogance.

Snobbery.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and turned his gaze to a new street they turned on. A group of women stood on the sides. Their dresses were vibrant in color, and strategically draped around the body. Immediately they noticed the procession. Tristan watched as the women's eyes followed each soldier, sometimes encouraging a giggle or flirtatious look. Here and there the women waved at the men. And then their eyes met Tristan's.

The women gasped and turned to speak to each other in hushed tones. A few of them looked back, their eyes running over Tristan. Laughter broke out as he passed them.

Finally, the procession slowed outside of a large wall of stone and plaster. An iron gate creaked open. Inside were lush plants and trees, with large leaves and blooms. The building that sat in the middle of all the greenery was tall too, but not nearly as large as some of the buildings the procession had passed. If this was a home, though . . .

Germanius moved from the hand-carried bed and raised his hands to the building.

"Ah, home!" He grinned like the fool he was, and turned to face Tristan. "My estate. Come! A feast awaits us!"

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Tristan was silent during the meal. Germanius came close to chuckling to himself. Tristan was _always_ silent. He'd been very interested in Rome. No doubt the city was already astonishing him. Maybe it was even intimidating him.

The scout picked at the food, eating a little here and there, but he was always composed. Though he must have been starving after the limited food on the ship, he didn't show it. He merely took a bit of food, and then sat back in his chair. His eyes moved around the room as he ate.

It fascinated Germanius. The man was so disciplined and extremely intent in his purpose. _Hopefully he will be just as intent in his new purpose._

After the meal, Germanius called for his guards. With a pointed look to Tristan, he said:

"I've someone I want you to meet."

They went to another estate, even though it was dusk outside and darkening fast. Germanius saw Tristan constantly looking around. The way everything drew his attention pleased Germanius. His scout was uncomfortable here, but he would adapt.

Eventually.

"There you are, Germanius!" came a cheerful call. The bishop looked up from the street and saw Asellio. He waved down, dressed in a toga adorned in burgundy sashes.

As they came closer, Asellio noticed the strange scout, quiet as ever and certainly not Roman.

"The Sarmatian?" Asellio asked as Germanius entered his home. The bishop smiled. He'd sent a messenger to him as soon as they arrived in Rome.

"Yes, Asellio." Germanius glanced at the knight. "This is Tristan." Both he and Asellio studied the knight for several moments. Tristan merely stared back blankly. Asellio glanced away, a smirk on his face. He turned and clapped his hands.

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The Roman, Asellio, led Germanius and the guards to a room covered in lavish carpets and pillows. Once Tristan was forced to sit on the floor, the guards backed away, leaving the room completely.

Tristan wondered why. The bishop and his friend sat on some large pillows and began chattering away. They spoke of Rome and church matters. It bored Tristan, slightly because he didn't really understand it all. Everything surrounded a culture of religion, a religion that was practiced insincerely. Based on what he'd seen, these Romans were no more religious than they were honest.

He pulled his knees up so his feet were flat on the floor. He leaned forward with his arms over his knees. His hands were bound yet again, something that was really annoying him, but he was patient.

Judging by how they addressed each other, Germanius and Asellio were not just acquaintances. There was a level of familiarity and confidence that went beyond pleasantries. They spoke in hushed tones every now and then too, like conspirators. And then they laughed, exchanging insults directed at someone they spoke about.

They mentioned the pope, senators, wives and harlots. Tristan started to feel like he was around the tavern table with the knights. That thought saddened him for a moment. How he wished he—

A hanging tapestry rippled. Tristan didn't move a muscle, only his eyes. He could see the legs of someone moving behind that tapestry, and judging by their cautious step, they were trying to be sneaky.

Whoever it was moved closer and closer towards him. His muscles tightened. His eyes stayed on the figure.

Suddenly, the person yelled, almost a battle-cry. It was a man, and he held high a dagger as he pushed aside the tapestry. Seeing Tristan, he took three steps and dove for him.

Tristan reacted. He rolled to the side, dodging the man. Quickly the scout got to his feet. The man did as well. He was dressed in black clothing, and his face was painted with shadows as well.

_An assassin._ The knight frowned. The man yelled again, and charged Tristan with the dagger.

Tristan held still, waiting for the man. The blade was raised high, over his shoulder. Tristan quickly shot his hands up, catching the fall of the man's attack. He pivoted and twisted his hands around the dagger until it was fully in his grasp.

Something moved by the window, another darkly dressed figure. Tristan tossed the dagger at the figure, catching him in the chest. A gurgled cry escaped his lips. Tristan didn't even turn back to the first attacker. He just listened for another attack, and stepped into it.

He ducked beneath a blow and turned to face the attacker. The man's face was flushed—he knew he held little advantage anymore. Tristan solidified that by raising his bound hands over the man's head. He gripped the man's head and neck and suddenly twisted. A dull but loud pop echoed in his ears.

Tristan let the body drop to the floor. His chest heaved just a little bit.

Suddenly there was applause. Over on those lavish pillows, Germanius and Asellio watched without any concern about the assassins. They glanced at each other and back at Tristan.

"Well done, Saramatian," Asellio praised. Tristan didn't understand what was going on. He stared at the Roman, then to Germanius. He kept his face devoid of any emotion.

Tristan glanced at the two bodies.

"It was a test," he said aloud, though softly. It wasn't a question, but a discovery. Germanius nodded, and then there was silence as the men watched Tristan. The scout walked over to the first body and tore away the dark mask. Lifeless eyes of a teenage boy stared back at him.

Tristan merely went to the next body, and pulled back the mask. It was another boy, this one younger, probably only 14 years old.

"His skills will easily exceed Illiano's," Asellio said with a nod. Tristan moved his gaze from the fallen assassins and out towards the window.

Germanius and Asellio talked some more, but the Sarmatian knight didn't remember about what. He just trudged back to the bishop's estate, escorted by the soldiers. They led him to that small room, windowless and empty.

He felt empty. More so than usual.

The faces of those boys burned into his memory as Tristan sat on the floor, his back against the wall. It wasn't guilt, or sorrow for killing them. He'd killed hundreds over the past 15 years. How many had those boys killed?

Were they taken from their homes too, and trained to kill? Their faces reminded him so much of Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot, and even himself, all as boys when their hellish 15-year tenure began. At least now the knights were free, either by death or Rome's papers of passage.

Even those assassins were free. It was far too early for them though. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn't have reacted to them.

_And what about me. . . .__am__ I going to serve another 15 years?_

Tristan stared at the locked door. His brown eyes bore into it, and he felt his body tighten with anger. He did not bother to hide how he felt, not now as he was alone. His fists opened and closed, clenched. His teeth ground together.

The next fifteen years would not be like the last. He would make sure of that.


	7. Run For Hell

**a/n**: I'm getting the sense that you all want to see more Arthur and the rest of the knights. I hate to tell you this, but this is going to center around Tristan the most. I'll cut to Arthur a few more times (I can't tell you when though, b/c it'll give it away!), but for how this story will play out, it cannot focus on Arthur. That doesn't mean Arthur is bad and abandons Tristan or whatever—it's just that life goes on. I hope you all are willing to read along anyway, because I think you'll enjoy it. If not, well, at least I enjoy writing.

**Run** **For** **Hell**

Germanius came for him early the next day.

"Come," he said. "There are some people I wish you to meet." Tristan barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Was he to be paraded through the city to meet every Roman imbecile?

It seemed that way.

The streets were crowded by late morning, filled with bazaars and people of all stations. Rome was just as divided by class as any other place, a fact that made Tristan snort. _And Arthur said __Rome__ was all about equality._

What station was he now? He was bound at the wrists again, and escorted by 8 Roman soldiers. He imagined the Romans saw him as a common prisoner. Or might have, if it weren't for his appearance. He stuck out like the strange animals. Maybe it was that he refused to wear the tunics and dress-like sheets that Germanius almost forced on him. Or the kilt-like skirts. Tristan suppressed a shudder. Whatever the reason, the people of Rome seemed to stop what they did to stare at him.

Yet suddenly their stares changed direction radically. A hush fell over the street, replaced by awed whispers. Tristan glanced around to see what held the people's attention.

Another procession came towards them, this one larger and more heavily guarded. Germanius saw this and approached the guarded carriage with open arms.

"Your excellence!" he exclaimed, that smile on his face that Tristan hated. Behind the scout, the soldiers moved forward, peering at the carriage.

"It's the pope!" he heard them whisper to each other. One soldier bumped his shoulder as he moved closer. Tristan stood incredibly still, just watching the carriage. Germanius spoke with the pope through a curtain that shielded the man from view.

Another soldier stepped closer, and there was no doubt that all eyes were on the pope's procession. Tristan felt his heart pick up pace.

This was it.

He focused on the sides of his vision, checking that he was clear. Slowly, silently, Tristan stepped back, once, twice, and into the dazed crowd. He snagged a man's dagger as he slid through the masses, barely drawing a flicker of attention.

The knight cut the ropes binding him as he moved further away. He tucked the dagger in his tunic and started to walk with purpose. His step was light, cautious but graceful. He didn't look over his shoulder, nor into anyone's eyes.

Even so, the people of the bazaar weren't blind. The further he got from Germanius, the more attentive people were. They couldn't see the pope, and so saw the next strangest thing—him.

He came to a large building, by far the largest he'd seen. It was round, with layers of columns on each level. Its walls towered high. _Not a bad place to hide. _

A ruckus seemed to come from the street he'd cut through. Tristan glanced over his shoulder. People started to shout and point. Tristan quickly ducked into the large building.

He trotted through stone corridors, heading towards more daylight on the inner part of the building. When he reached it, he stopped.

The inside was hollow, filled with sandy ground. All the layers of the building faced inward, like . . .

_An amphitheater?_ He'd heard of such things, but never seen one on this scale. It was empty.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder again before moving across the amphitheater's sand. He ran to the other side, and up the stairs where people must have sat to watch. He climbed higher until he reached a vantage point over the city.

The scout stood concealed behind a column, looking out over the streets and people milling about. Soldiers ran around below, frantically searching. Tristan pushed himself closer to the column.

More and more soldiers moved about. In the distance, he could see them running and searching. It wasn't just Germanius or his guards. The whole Roman army was on the lookout for him.

Tristan swore under his breath and sat with his back against the column. He would have to wait, for now.

Two hours later, Tristan ventured out of the auditorium. The soldiers hadn't been in the area for an hour. Now was as good a time as any. He moved quickly towards the nearest bazaar. One shop held several robes and cloaks. Tristan grabbed one as he passed. He turned down a dusty street, this one narrow and dirty, more of a passageway between buildings.

He shook the robe out, studying it as he held it in front of him. It would do. It was a blue-gray cloth, and more bearable than the constant reds that Romans favored. He pulled it over his head and let it fall around his body. How these were considered fashionable, he didn't know, but it would allow him to blend in. He ran his fingers through his hair, even though they caught a bit on his braids. Romans looked shaven and . . . just different from him. This would have to do.

His hair fell forward a bit, and Tristan left it there. It hid the tattoos on his face, something that would instantly mark him.

The scout rejoined the masses, pushing through the crowd at a productive but common pace. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but he followed his nose. He hadn't forgotten that smell, his first impression of Rome.

The fish market and seaport thrived with activity. Men hauled fish and tossed it from one customer to another. If one wasn't good enough, another quickly replaced it. Tristan fought the churning in his stomach at the smell, and also the ocean. It was the quickest way out, and the only way he knew.

Three ships waited at the seaport. One looked like it just arrived. The second was tied up at the dock with no one on board or working. Tristan frowned and looked to the third. Roman soldiers swarmed it, moving back and forth on deck. It was a ship of the Roman navy.

_That won't work._

Tristan turned from the port.

And right into a Roman soldier. The soldier was tall, with square soldiers. He reminded Tristan of Arthur, with curly hair that peaked from under the helmet. The soldier stared at Tristan.

The knight had seen this soldier before. He was one of Germanius's, though not one that dealt with Tristan too much.

_Ortegius_ That's what Germanius had called him. Tristan abruptly bolted to the side, breaking out in a run as he weaved through the market. He heard the Roman shout behind him, echoed quickly by other shouts.

Tristan dodged people from side to side. He found every hole in the crowd and pushed through there. He glanced over his shoulder to see five soldiers not too far behind him.

Looking ahead, the knight saw four more. His eyes darted around for another route. Without faltering in pace, Tristan turned and ran down a side street. Carts filled with fruit and other merchandise lined the street. He pulled at one as he flew by, making the apples inside tumble out. The merchant screamed at him, but Tristan sped away, even with an apple in hand. He heard the Roman soldiers behind him trip over the apples, and smirked at the small victory.

The next street he came to was wide and busy. Thousands of people milled about, a few horses pulled carts and carriages, and more make-shift shops crowded everything. _Do these people only shop?_ He shook his head and ran to the right, up the street.

Horses galloped towards him, ridden by soldiers. They spread out and blocked Tristan's path.

"There!" one soldier shouted, pointing with his sword at Tristan.

Tristan stopped and glanced from side to side. There were no side streets that split off, no large building to duck into. It was just him, against a contingent of soldiers. He heard the clatter of armor coming up behind him. Tristan pivoted to the side with his back to a wall, so he could see all the soldiers. He tore off the robe and removed the dagger he'd taken before.

The soldiers approached him carefully, their blades drawn and their step almost in rhythm as they tightened a semi-circle around him. Tristan fingered the apple he stole. He narrowed his eyes to take quick aim, then threw the apple at a soldier's head.

It split upon hitting the soldier. He crumbled to the ground. The others stared at the fallen man, then back at Tristan.

He smirked at them, and transferred the dagger in his throwing hand. A couple of soldiers took a step back.

Suddenly two soldiers yelled out their courage and charged him. Tristan took one step to them and twisted down to one knee. He slammed the dagger in one's gut, grabbed his sword and in one arc cut the other man from shoulder to navel.

He stood back up and took a fighting stance. He was perfectly still, just waiting for the next. The sword in his hands wasn't nearly as good as his normal curved blade, but it was still sharp.

Three more came at him. Tristan waited until they were in striking distance, then hopped to one side and stabbed his sword to the side. A soldier hung on the end of his blade. He twisted the blade out and brought it up to ward off a blow from another soldier. The swords clanged as they met. The scout pivoted and brought his blade down, forcing the other soldier's sword to the ground. The third soldier thrusted his sword at Tristan. Tristan stood high on his toes and sucked his body away from the blade. He kicked the soldier and elbowed the second one in the face. They both staggered a bit, giving Tristan time and room to end their lives. He swung up, slashing into the second soldier's chest. He let the movement of his sword continue up until it naturally came back down, right into the third soldier.

The remaining soldiers, which were many as more gathered, all stared at him.

"Kill him," one in particular said.

"No," came another. It was Ortegius. Tristan tilted his head to the side, waiting for them to make up their minds. "He is not to be killed, by order of Bishop Germanius." A few soldiers grumbled, but they all turned their blades back to Tristan.

A soldier suddenly went for a dagger and threw it at Tristan. It flew at his leg. Tristan moved out of the way a little late, letting the dagger catch the material of his pants but not his flesh.

Ortegius glared at the soldier.

"You didn't say he can't be injured," the soldier defended himself.

The soldiers glanced back and forth amongst themselves.

"At once," Ortegius said, standing back as if he were merely the supervisor here. Suddenly the soldiers charged, all of them together. Tristan's heart jumped, but he steadied himself.

He didn't bother thrusting the blade into anyone. That trapped his sword. Instead he slashed at the soldiers, succeeding in taking down two quickly.

Someone knocked into him, tackling him to the ground. Tristan held firmly onto his sword and brought the hilt down on the man's back. But the damage was done. On the ground, he was vulnerable. The Roman soldiers converged on him, four of them pinning him down with their weight.

Even so, Tristan struggled against them. He kicked someone, and tried again until a soldier sat on his leg. The soldiers all seemed to take an appendage, sitting or pushing down on his limbs so he couldn't move.

Ortegius stepped into the foray, his sword out. He pressed the tip of it against Tristan's throat. Tristan stilled but his eyes glared into Ortegius. Ortegius just pressed the blade harder into his throat.

"Should I make the silent scout silent for good?" he asked aloud. The soldiers around him laughed and cheered. Tristan tilted his head back, trying to stretch his neck to alleviate the pressure of the sword. Ortegius pushed even harder. Tristan stopped breathing as the tip bit into his neck.

"Let him up." Tristan's eyes darted to the newcomer—Germanius himself. He looked dissatisfied, like he'd eaten a bad meal. Even so, he waved for the soldiers to let him up. The soldiers peeled off of him but still held fast as they got him to his feet. Tristan stared at the bishop, keeping his face blank but his eyes boring into the supposed man of God.

The bishop slowly smiled.

"Ortegius. Assemble the army. They make for Britain," Germanius said. Tristan's glare faltered. "They will kill anything in their way, and bring back the bodies of Arthur and his knights."

_He's bluffing._ He had to be. Germanius waved his hand again, and suddenly a soldier slammed his fist into Tristan's stomach. His legs buckled a bit, but the soldiers around him kept him standing. Tristan coughed and straightened up. Another blow came his way, this one again to his stomach. Someone hit him in the face too. It stung but quickly became numb.

"Bring him," Germanius said. Suddenly something crashed against Tristan's head. His vision went black and he vaguely remembered falling.

When he awoke, the sun had moved far into the west. It blinded him, which made Tristan wonder where he was. He sat up, triggering frantic movement to his sides. Three soldiers scurried for their weapons and held them to Tristan.

The scout blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was higher than everything.

_A roof,_ he figured. Judging by the familiar grounds below, they were on top of Germanius's estate.

Germanius stood by him. He didn't stare down at Tristan or admire the setting sun. His eyes looked over the city. Tristan found his eyes following the bishop's eyeline.

Soldiers hurried below them, littering the streets as much as the commoners. He could hear the call for arms, to gather and ready for battle. Tristan glanced to Germanius. The man was staring at him now, intently and with a hint of fury. Tristan looked back over the city.

Battalions of soldiers gathered and marched towards a central point of the city. There were caravans, weighted heavily with supplies and animals and weapons. The city buzzed with energy, an energy Tristan recognized. It was the anticipation of battle.

Germanius's threat came back to him. Not just the threat he made in Britain, but the order he gave Ortegius. Tristan felt his chest constrict. He couldn't draw enough breath. He looked over at Germanius.

"When they return," the bishop began, "I will have them string up the bodies of the knights in your room."

Tristan swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. _It's not a bluff._ Rome's army was massing and readying, even in so short a time. They would leave and march on Britain, on Arthur. Arthur was strong, but the country was weak. Even he could not defeat an army such as this.

"No," Tristan said. It came as a whisper.

"What?" Germanius said. Tristan glared at him.

"Call them off," he said, his voice rising for the man to clearly hear.

Germanius just smirked at Tristan. "I told you what would happen if you tried to escape. I make good on my words, Tristan." The bishop turned back to the city, watching with sick pride.

Tristan's muscles tensed. He swallowed again.

"Call them off," he said again. Tristan shut his eyes. He hated what he was about to do. "I'll do what you want."

"I thought we reached that arrangement before," Germanius said. "I cannot trust you, Tristan."

Tristan drew a deep breath. Trust wasn't something that he granted Germanius in the least, not when he'd already stolen his freedom after granting it in Britain.

"We have an agreement now."

Germanius laughed. It was a strange sound, artificial and laced with an angry tone. The bishop stepped towards the scout. He stared intently at him, his face close to Tristan's. Suddenly he stepped back and hit Tristan across the face. He quickly hit him again, this time drawing a bit of blood on his cheek.

Tristan's eyes flashed for a moment, but he quickly calmed himself. He had to, for Arthur's sake.

"Call them off," he repeated. "Please."

Suddenly Germanius grinned. He grabbed Tristan by his tunic and shoved him back on the roof top.

"You are lucky, Sarmatian, that I am forgiving." Germanius glared at him and then straightened as he turned to one soldier.

"Summon Ortegius. Tell him to cancel the march on Britain," the bishop said with a serpent-like glance towards Tristan. "And take the scout below."


	8. Submission

**a/n**: Please review! I decided to post part of what would have been the next chapter, so reward me for it. I hope you enjoy it, especially the—well, read it.

**Submission**

"You belong to me now," Germanius said. They were in some dark corner of the bishop's estate. The stone walls were moist, and the air cool despite the heat Tristan had noticed in Rome.

Tristan stood in the middle of the stone room, his hands at his sides.

"You do what I tell you. You will serve me without question," the bishop continued. "You are mine, and you will bear the mark." Tristan raised an eyebrow at that. The bishop motioned to three soldiers, who seized Tristan. His first instinct was to struggle, but one look from Germanius made him still. It felt so foreign to be this compliant.

_You have no choice._

He was forced to lie on his stomach on the stone floor. His shirt was ripped away, exposing his back. Two of the soldiers held down his arms, and the third sat on his back. A chill ran through Tristan as he heard the metallic sing of a knife.

He felt the tip of it cut into his right shoulder. His muscles strained hard, not against the soldiers, but against the pain. The soldier cut down on the back of the shoulder before lifting the blade and cutting in a new spot. Tristan shut his eyes. His blood flowed over his back and down his side to his chest.

The soldier made three more cuts before going back and recutting each one. Tristan bit his lip, his teeth drawing blood with the pain. But he didn't make a sound. He could almost sense the bishop's approval.

And it sickened Tristan. His stomach roiled, and his skin felt tingly and flush with sweat. As soon as the soldiers released him, Tristan felt his stomach revolt. He threw up any fluids in his stomach.

Germanius laughed, though he seemed disgusted.

"Your life could be easier here, Tristan," he said. "Maybe it will be one day. But for your disobedience, you must pay." He walked away, his footsteps echoing off the stone as he left.

Tristan slowly felt his stomach calm. He wearily rolled onto his back, more to one side so his right shoulder wasn't aggravated.

The soldiers grinned down at him. Tristan shut his eyes, knowing what was coming.

And knowing he could do nothing about it.

The first few blows echoed off those stone walls, and after a few more hits, Tristan's groans of pain sounded as well.

0-0-0-0-

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The town was growing. News of the win over the Saxons and of the Roman abandonment brought more people to Hadrian's Wall. The people were eager to live this life of freedom and equality.

Woads, Sarmatians, any person could come here, and they had. What surprised Arthur was that they all hailed him as king. It was a bit daunting, but he felt the mantel of responsibility adjusting on his shoulders.

Guinevere settled into duties as well. As queen, she hadn't indulged in vanities but had quickly moved to help the people recover. She was out in the fields, helping plant new crops. She joined Arthur on hunts for all the settlement.

It was a peaceful existence.

Bors even found it enjoyable. The man seemed to relish being with his many children. Vanora even tolerated him being around all the time.

Galahad was ever the bachelor and trying hard to make a wonderful life for himself. The young knight had much to learn still, but he was a loyal friend, one that Arthur could not do without, as with all his knights.

Gawain had yet to find that beautiful Sarmatian woman. Something beyond that bothered the knight, but Arthur hadn't succeeded in discovering what.

They were out by a brooklet, trying to stem the flow of water for awhile for the fields. Gawain stood knee-deep in the water, swiping a wet hand over his flushed face. Arthur leaned against a wooden post, one of several they were trying to move to stop the water.

The two knights breathed heavily as they took a break. Arthur expected silence—but he was surprised.

"Do you ever feel like something is missing?" Gawain asked. He looked upwards at the clear blue sky, watching a pair of birds play.

Arthur studied his reflection in the water for a moment before answering.

"Perhaps. What do you mean?" he asked back. Gawain shrugged, raising his long hair with his shoulders.

"I expected life to be different," he said. "After . . . Rome." Arthur suddenly knew what he meant. He nodded.

"How did you expect it to be?"

Again, Gawain shrugged. He leaned heavily against the bank, still half immersed in the water and not caring.

"Happier." Immediately, Gawain's eyes darted to Arthur and sheepishly at the water. "Sorry. I don't mean that this life isn't a great—"

"Gawain, please," Arthur interrupted. "Go on."

Gawain sighed and splashed his hand over the water. "I had hoped it would be more complete. Maybe it's not having Lancelot, Tristan, Dagonet . . ." He sighed again. "I suppose I always imagined a lot of us still alive, and happy."

A pang hit Arthur's heart. He was quite familiar with how Gawain felt. For him, it magnified tenfold with guilt. How he wished Rome and its cause had been truly worthy of the lives sacrificed for it. How often had he hoped Rome would really live up to what he thought. But he had been lost in dreams.

"What about you?" Gawain asked. "What did you expect?"

Arthur looked over his shoulder, back at Hadrian's Wall and the growing town. He saw Guinevere teaching a young lad how to use a bow properly. It brought a much-needed smile to his face.

"For years, I thought of returning to Rome. Maybe showing you and the other knights how great and precious it was." Arthur shook his head to himself. "I didn't expect to lose so many of our brothers." He heard Guinevere cheer as the lad she taught hit close to the center of the target. "And I didn't expect any of this." He gestured to the settlement.

Gawain nodded. "It's turning out all right though." He grinned, easing Arthur and their somber mood. Arthur chuckled.

"That it is."

They stood and stretched, readying themselves for another try at their sorry dam.

"Do you still want to see Rome?" Gawain asked suddenly. Arthur stopped his work. His brow crinkled, pondering the question.

Did he want to see Rome? After so much pain in learning that Pelagius had been killed, after Rome's dishonorable dealings with him and his knights . . . after so many useless deaths of his knights . . .

He sighed.

"I spent most of my life with Rome on a pillar. Since the Saxon incursion, I've felt nothing but anger and betrayal in thinking of the city," he said. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking. "But maybe one day. Part of me wonders what the city is really like after all these years."

"You think you would go?" Gawain asked with a smile. Arthur laughed to himself and smiled at Gawain's good nature.

"Perhaps, Gawain." He stared up at the sky, seeing a familiar hawk peruse her usual hunting grounds. "Perhaps."

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Germanius and the soldiers left him alone for four days. Tristan needed every moment to rest and heal. The cuts on his shoulder were still crusted with blood, but he could feel the scar that was forming. It was somewhat intricate. It was meant as a brand.

And it meant he belonged to Germanius.

The beating he sustained was far from pleasant. Bruises covered his body, purple and yellowing blobs over his chest and back and sides. His jaw was tender from a few kicks there, but he could move it without too much pain. Eating wasn't really pleasant the first day, so he didn't bother, but by the second day, it was that or make it harder for him to heal without nourishment.

Someone was coming for him. Tristan heard footsteps outside his room. He pushed himself off the floor so he was sitting up.

It was Orteguis, and another soldier.

"Come with us," he commanded. Tristan tried to stand, but his legs wavered. He placed a hand on the wall, trying to steady himself. His left arm cradled around his stomach and ribs that ached still, but he finally made it on his feet and followed Ortegius. The other soldier followed Tristan—some form of guarding, he guessed, although neither soldier had a sword ready.

_You serve Germanius now. There is no need for weapons._

He hated himself.

Ortegius led him to a room filled with steam. The floors and columns were marble, and in the middle of the room was a pool of water. Orteguis stopped and motioned to the pool.

"You're to bathe. Germanius will not tolerate filth," he said with a haughty snarl. Tristan just watched the man. He couldn't help he was dirty—he was still bloody from the beating, and his clothes were tattered. His shirt alone was almost non-existent.

"Your possessions have been cleaned." Ortegius motioned to a pile of clothes and armor. "Germanius will allow you to dress as a Sarmatian. Even your armor and weapons. But if you try anything, there are several that are instructed to destroy Britain."

The soldiers left Tristan to ponder that. Germanius was counting on his threat to protect him.

Sadly, it would. Tristan glanced at the pile of armor. At least he'd feel slightly more comfortable this way.

Tristan tugged at the remnants of his tunic. A groan escaped his lips as he pulled the shirt off. For that moment, his vision was obstructed, but as soon as it cleared, he saw he wasn't alone.

Three women entered the bath house. They were dressed in loosely-draped fabrics, just plain and light colors. Various bracelets adorned their wrists, but the women seemed very simple overall.

_Servants_, Tristan thought.

He watched them, unsure of why they were here. The women nodded to him, and came closer. Tristan froze physically, but his eyes traced their movements until they were right in front of him.

The first woman reached for his tattered tunic. She took it from his hands, while the second woman reached for his hair. He tensed when she fingered the braids in his hair.

He pulled away, stepping back to distance himself from this new . . . situation.

"The bishop asked that we bathe you," the third woman said. She and the second woman reached again for his braids and started to undo them. Tristan leaned back and caught their wrists.

"No," he said shortly, releasing their wrists. The women glanced to each other before nodding. One of them grabbed his hand and tried to pull him towards the water.

Tristan frowned and planted his feet so he wouldn't move. _Are they supposed to . . . wash me?_

The women again looked to each other before one spoke. "The water, sir?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow. A choice phrase came to mind, which he didn't utter aloud.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

_Yes._

Tristan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Another thought came to mind: _did Germanius get him . . . women?_

Why, especially after having beat him so thoroughly?

Again, a woman reached for his hand and pulled him to the water's edge. Tristan found himself feeling like a doe as an arrow flies to kill it. His body was still, unnaturally so. The first woman came towards him and reached for his waist. Her fingers pulled at his pants.

Tristan stepped away, although a bit clumsily. He bumped into the second woman. Again he stepped back, this time into the third servant.

"Have you never had a Roman bath?" one of them asked. He wasn't sure which one. This whole situation was making it difficult to concentrate.

"Is that what you call it?" Tristan mumbled. He coughed, which instantly aggravated his chest and bruises. He gasped and wrapped his arms around his torso. "Leave."

The women stood there, dumbly. Their faces were twisted in a sort of shock. Tristan rolled his eyes.

"Your services aren't needed," he said, this time more forcefully. "Leave me."

They quickly bowed and scurried from the bath house. Tristan sighed and shut his eyes. He drew in a deep breath of the steamy air.

Opening his eyes again, he was pleased to find he was really alone. Even so, he left his pants on and stepped into the pool of water. It was hot and soothing. Tristan leaned against the pool's edge, his eyes darting around the room, just in case.

He knew Romans were different, but the bath incident now just solidified the alienation. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"Romans," he mumbled to himself.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Tristan's clothes felt . . . different. Clean. And they smelled . . . nice. It kind of bothered him—flowers, or something. The only thing that evened things out was his long leather vest, which hung past his thighs and tied in front of his chest.

His long sword, curved at the tip, rested against his back in its scabbard. He didn't wear his full armor, partially because it was so hot. It was also because if he happened to get killed in an attack, he wouldn't complain.

Germanius had that look on his face. It was pride, unabashed and gloating—knowing he had control over Tristan. The bishop kept glancing over his shoulder at the scout as they walked to Illiano Constantine's estate. Tristan was silent, unwilling to speak to Germanius. The bishop wanted Tristan to act as his guard, for now. Somehow, he sensed there was more to the task than that.

The estate was large, lavish, and frankly boring. These Romans loved finery and luxury and wasting money. It made Tristan snarl at the thought, especially when he saw all the beggars on the street.

_You're thinking like Arthur._ He smirked.

_If he knew the truth about __Rome . . . .  
_

Germanius turned to Tristan as he entered the gate.

"Pay attention to the estate," he said. "You will need the advantage." With that, he turned back around and stalked regally into the main house.

Tristan blinked.

He followed inside. The halls were dimly lit, even in broad daylight. It opened up to a large room, with a smaller room on the side. A roman man emerged from there.

"Germanius!" the man greeted.

"Illiano," the bishop replied, with a touch of coolness to his tone. Tristan glanced at him, then at Illiano.

"Come to my gardens," he said, taking the lead. "It is a beautiful day out, no?"

Tristan contained a sigh of boredom, and tried to focus on the estate. It would help to know why Germanius wanted him to pay attention, but he had nothing to go on. More rooms, more Roman tapestries, more Roman decorations, servants, a child and a lady . . .

And finally the gardens.

Illiano gestured widely to stone benches, surrounded by bright orange and fiery red blooms on prickly green bushes. The man himself laid himself on one of two sofas. Germanius took the other. Both laid on their sides, leaning on an elbow and appearing quite relaxed. For Tristan, it looked uncomfortable. He remained standing, leaning against a column.

"The pope expresses his gratitude for your support of the church," Germanius began. "He wishes you to know that you are in his prayers."

Illiano didn't seem overjoyed at this, but he nodded appreciatively.

"His attention to the poor and the lost give me great hope for Rome," Illiano said. "Perhaps one day we will find Rome the city we all dream it to be."

The Romans spoke back and forth like this, cryptic well-wishes and dream talk. Tristan found himself bored, but he focused on the garden and the estate. There were two levels, open hallways upstairs that overlooked the garden. He saw servants peaking down at them, particularly at Tristan himself.

"And who is this?" Illiano asked, his eyes flickering to Tristan. The scout turned his attention back to the conversation. His face was expressionless, more that of a soldier, or better yet, a knight.

"My personal guard," Germanius said. He didn't bother shooting Tristan a warning glare. His tone was even and sounded uninterested. That was the point for now, wasn't it? Whatever the purpose Tristan was to serve, he imagined he was supposed to be somewhat low-profile.

Even so, his Sarmatian garb made Illiano look him up and down. "Where did you find him?"

Tristan cocked his head to the side. He smirked at Germanius, curious as to how the lying bishop would explain it.

"A deserter in Britain," he said. "He pledged his service to me when I came upon some soldiers who captured him."

Tristan glared at him, not even bothering to hide the displeasure when Illiano glanced back at him.

"Really," Illiano deadpanned. Suddenly his countenance lightened. "I hear Britain and Arthur survived the Saxons. Rumor has it that the country is now under his rule."

Tristan fought to stay still, but his heart leapt inside of him. He listened intently as the Roman continued.

"It would be nice to see Arthur succeed. The world is in need of a new place for free men," Illiano added.

The topic passed, and with it a degree of hope. The Romans spoke about politics and gossiped, but Tristan kept thinking about Britain. Was it really ruled by Arthur now? All the past years of him dreaming of a free land and equality . . . could he make it happen?

Somehow the possibility, now closer to realization and recognition, made Tristan proud of his commander. Silently, as always, he stood against the pillar in the garden, and thought about the land that was his home for most of his life. This new life, or new hell he was in could be worth the suffering, if Britain succeeded. If Arthur succeeded.

_Don't fail, Arthur,_ he thought up to a void in the sky.

0-0-0-0-

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The scout was silent, just sitting at the table as a feast was laid out before him. Germanius didn't normally allow servants at his table, but Tristan was different. Their arrangement made it so.

Besides, he found himself challenged by the Sarmatian. Every word he managed to elicit from Tristan made him giddy. So far, though, the knight said little beyond a few words at a time. He responded to necessary questions, but never indulged conversation and certainly never started it.

Again, Tristan picked at his food. He used his knife more than anything to get at the food. It was primitive, and somewhat disgusting if Germanius lingered on it. But yet the knight was extremely efficient. No movement was wasted or fruitless. Every flick of his wrist yielded exactly the result he wanted. It was like that in all the man did. Even polishing his sword was an art, and something that Germanius noticed Tristan did far more often than actually needed.

_An intimidation tactic_, Germanius thought. It did not matter though. The knight was cooperating. _And now for his first assignment._

Germanius waved away the servants, leaving Tristan and him alone at the table. From underneath the table and concealed in a fine wooden box, Germanius removed three scrolls.

Tristan noticed every movement. That always surprised Germanius, how precisely he honed in on what went on around him, but it was a blessed skill. The bishop set the scrolls on the table.

"I have a task for you," he began. He paused for a second, hoping the silence would be interrupted by the knight, but in vain. "You must go to Illiano Constantine's estate, with these scrolls."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, a welcome change to the plain landscape of emotions on his face.

"You force me to serve as a messenger?" he asked, bewildered. Germanius grinned. He was pleased at the question, the skepticism, so much so that he almost forgot the task.

"No, my Sarmatian knight." Tristan curled his lip up when Germanius said that. He tended to do that whenever Germanius called him by some sort of possessive name. The bishop didn't care—he knew it was necessary to remind Tristan who was in charge.

Germanius cleared his throat to continue. "You will go to Illiano's estate, secretly. Find his study. It is not the one in the front room. He has another, deeper within the grounds." He held up the scrolls, waving them slightly as if Tristan wasn't sure what he was talking about. "Put these in his office, among his correspondence."

Tristan blinked. His face was blank, but this time perhaps a bit more genuinely.

"That's it?"

It was Germanius's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You expected something else?"

The knight almost opened his mouth—Germanius could see the slight jump to say something and then bit it back. He smirked at the knight.

"That is all. You go tonight."


	9. Things in Rome

**A/n: **In response to the inquiry about Tristan being alone the whole time, I'd have to say yes and no. It's imperative that he is alone—because that's just who he is and how he'd be. However, I do have a character that I plan to introduce that will make things interesting for Tristan. Will this be a romance? No, though that doesn't mean romance itself is completely left out. If you've enjoyed this story so far, all I can say is that you'll like the rest. And sorry this took awhile longer—72-hr work weeks make time difficult. Please review! It'll help me keep going, despite the work hours!

**Things in ****Rome**

His eyes were frozen on the parchment before him. Tristan stood immobile in the study of Illiano. It was a secondary study, or perhaps one that was kept far from the eyes of guests.

Wisely so. Tristan was starting to understand the games Romans played.

He told himself he didn't care about this task or who it affected. He had his dagger tucked in his belt, well within reach for any unexpected surprises. He had the scrolls Germanius gave him tucked in his outer vest. The guards at Illiano's estate were easy to pass by. It was all going well.

But he hadn't expected to see Illiano's latest correspondence. It was left on the desk, unsealed. As Tristan's fingers slid the scroll back to reveal the words, he found the letter was unfinished.

And that's when he began to read it. His Latin was very sketchy in the written word, but he understood enough—enough to know that Illiano wrote to Arthur in Britain. After that there wasn't mention of much that Tristan understood. Part of him wished Illiano had written something about him, maybe to tell Arthur a Sarmatian knight was in Rome.

Almost immediately he felt ashamed of himself for feeling so desperate. He'd never relied on others before. Why start now? He scowled at the parchment and let it go, sending the scroll rolling back up almost naturally.

In a huff of anger, Tristan removed the three scrolls from his vest. He opened the writing desk's drawer and stuffed the scrolls there. Again the thought came to him that maybe he should care enough to read those scrolls. His anger, however, clouded that. He would not care. Why should he? He had one cause, one that taxed him enough—and that was to make sure Rome did not destroy Britain.

Obediently, Tristan finished his task, shutting the drawer. He stayed still for a moment to listen to the house and its quiet. Amid the sounds of night, he tried to shut out the thoughts in his mind.

He escaped out the window and ran most of the way back to Germanius's estate.

0-0-0-0-

Germanius felt happy. There was a bounce to his step, which made his robes flitter a bit. The Sarmatian knight stared at him, but Germanius didn't care. All was going as planned.

Tristan escorted as bodyguard to a private trial. In the depths of the Senate arena, Illiano Constantine stood, shackled and guarded. Germanius stood near the back of the gathered assembly who watched with both awe and hatred.

"They found letters," Germanius heard senators and the public whisper around him.

"They say it is treason."

"A plot to destroy Rome, and the church."

It took all Germanius had not to grin. He glanced at Tristan, who was stone-faced as ever. But his eyes held a measure of surprise, and perhaps bewilderment.

The scout would be rewarded for his good work. No one even suspected the trap Germanius had laid. Well, expect Illiano, but what good did that do the man who would be dead by the end of the week? Tristan did well indeed. If only he understood fully what he'd done.

In Rome, there are more ways than a blade to kill a man.

0-0-0-0-

Social events. So far Tristan had been lucky enough to just follow Germanius around as a guard, for one meeting or the next or simply shopping at the markets. It was boring, yes, but at least it allowed him some quiet. But now, a Roman family was having a festival of sorts. They all gathered at Asellio's estate, where Germanius tended to frequent anyway. The man wasn't Tristan's favorite, to put it mildly. Ever since the assassination of Illiano—well, first politically, then formally by an official execution—Tristan found himself numbly following.

There was much to learn about Rome. He didn't know why it bothered him that the man was dead now. Perhaps it was the letter he'd seen. Illiano . . . didn't appear to be deserving of his fate—not when he wrote Arthur. That seemed too friendly an action . . . .

"Bishop Germanius," someone greeted. It was an older man, balding and robed in a purple-colored toga. At his side and playfully draped on his arm was a tall woman. She had a sharp nose and high cheekbones. Her hair was swept up high on her head in a bun.

"We were _shocked_ by the trial of Constantine," she said. Tristan, a step behind Germanius, raised an eyebrow. She certainly didn't sound shocked. She spoke haughtily. Her eyes flickered past the bishop to Tristan and came back to the bishop in just a second.

"Decia Quintas. Yes," Germanius said, a smug grin covering his mouth. "It was a harsh blow to us all."

The bald man chuckled at that, but Germanius and the woman called Decia uttered no sound. Tristan observed the look between them. Decia was no simple woman. Though she held the bald man's arm, she was not with him. The air with which she carried herself suggested power. Maybe not official, or royalty, but _presence_.

Again her eyes drifted over to Tristan. He stared at her.

"A new guard, Germanius?" the bald man asked, glancing at the scout. Germanius smiled, and even turned to face him. All eyes were on Tristan. He didn't move a muscle as he stared ahead, past them and focusing on a stone column.

"Yes, and a skilled warrior."

The bald man nodded approvingly, but the woman, Decia, didn't show any reaction.

Suddenly the bald man excused himself to get a drink. He was out of earshot when Decia stepped closer to Germanius.

"I hear Asellio wants your guard's services soon," Decia said. "Especially after his success."

Tristan was annoyed that they spoke about him, with him obviously hearing, and yet they acted like he wasn't in front of them.

"I invite all my friends to use my guard's skills, if necessary," Germanius said. He smirked at the scout. "He is a prized possession."

Tristan clamped his teeth hard down on his tongue. A jarring pain went through it and he cringed. How he hated this man . . .

As if sensing someone talking about him, Asellio himself suddenly appeared. The woman nodded to Germanius, and turned with a sneer in Asellio's direction. The Roman noticed but didn't care. Again, Tristan saw it all. But he didn't understand it. Yet.

Asellio and Germanius both waved off Tristan. They started walking through the courtyard, talking in hushed tones. Tristan moved away. A bad taste filled his mouth. Watching the Romans mingle, indulge, conspire . . . how did they ever survive their own kind? Behind his wind-tossed bangs and braids, he saw a people that pretended and hated. People who existed only to get ahead of each other, by whatever means.

He still didn't understand why Illiano was killed. Tristan shifted his weight and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He looked down at the ground with a sigh.

"Asellio's assignment won't be as simple as Germanius's," a soft but confident voice said in his ear. Tristan stayed his muscles but turned his head to look over his shoulder, where Decia stood.

He examined her, up and down, more to unnerve the bold woman than anything else. No other Roman had really dared to approach him or talk to him directly. Only Germanius did, and the guard Ortegius. Mostly those were for threats or an occasional hit. She stood, looking out and over the crowd. Her dark hair had a few loose strands which blew in a light breeze. The strands tickled Tristan's face.

"He will ask you to kill someone," Decia continued. "Can you do that?"

He thought about ignoring her. Why grace her comments with any answer when he rarely spoke anyway? But a bitter thought came to mind.

"I killed for fifteen years for Rome," he said evenly.

"Really?" She didn't doubt him with that, but her tone was deadpanned. "You've killed, yes. But have you ever hunted someone, killing him in his bedroom at night, and leaving him for all the world to see when the sun rose?"

He didn't answer. His eyes found a nondescript spot in the courtyard, and he tried hard not to flinch as those strands of Decia's hair still swept over his cheek. He wanted nothing more than to turn sharply and cut that hair away.

She didn't press him, but patted him on his shoulder like he was a friend.

"Good luck, Sarmatian."

0-0-0-0-

Germanius came back to him an hour later. Tristan was avoiding human contact as best he could, and in some ways was glad the bishop was back.

He waved Tristan over.

"You will wait here," he said, a bit unsteadily, as if the man had a couple of drinks. "Asellio wishes for your help."

Tristan was tired. He sighed but clasped his hands behind his back, waiting.

"He'll find you later," Germanius said, stifling a yawn. As soon as he finished it, his eyes and expression hardened. "Do what he says. And don't return until it's done."

He hated it, but nodded.

It was well into the morning hours when the festivities finally ended. Tristan was used to little sleep, to waiting around, watching. But the boredom that plagued him frustrated as well. He waited for Asellio, hoping the venomous fool would put an end to this.

Asellio sauntered up to him, gaily energetic despite the longest night known to man. His face was light, more relieved than anything else. Asellio was _not_ a light man. He was a drunk for power.

But that was just Tristan's opinion.

"Ah, the Sarmatian," he said. He stopped in front of him, sizing him up with a visual inspection. "Germanius claims you are a warrior. I've seen you kill before."

Tristan sighed. He was tired, and just wanted to get away from this man.

"What do you want?" he demanded in his quiet tone. It was so unique to him. No one else could sound threatening, dangerous, or annoyed while being so calm and quiet. But Asellio didn't seem to appreciate that.

He backhanded Tristan. A fat ring on the man's hand landed harder on his cheekbone and stung. Tristan clenched his fists.

_I could kill him so easily._

"You're mine for now. You'll do what I want," Asellio hissed. The Roman cleared his throat and straightened his toga. "Now. Do you know Kulanis Herculius?"

_No._ Tristan just stared blankly at him.

"You will. Just before you slit his throat."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Kulanis was a busy man. Already, Tristan followed through the city, to the senate, back to his estate, and out in the town again. He was tired. He'd been through worse, he supposed, when he tracked for the survival of him and the knights. But somehow this was more exhausting.

The sun was setting. Kulanis entered his estate, his pace still timely and productive. Tristan kept walking, heading around the estate and towards the servants' area. He stopped just outside the walled perimeter.

With his hands, he patted his dagger. He was starting to miss his sword. It stood out too much. And for this assignment, he needed stealth again. Tristan drew a breath, deep and readying.

And then he moved.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Germanius heard the shouts. The pandemonium—he could taste it. The panic, the tension. Seeing a messenger hurry through his estate to him, the bishop knew something had indeed happened.

The messenger said nothing but bowed and handed a scroll to him. Germanius waved him off.

He read the message. Slowly a grin spread over his face.

About an hour later, Asellio showed up.

"You have heard the news?" he asked, the glee not even trying to be contained on his face. Germanius nodded.

"Yes. Word spreads quickly," he said. "Does anyone suspect you?"

Asellio shook his head. "No one. But Kulanis was found very _fresh_. I don't know what became of your scout."

Germanius frowned. If his scout was found, the suspicion would follow him. Not that he couldn't blame it on some hatred from the Sarmatian, but still, it would not bode well for the bishop. And he certainly didn't want any blame when it wasn't his task. That was a danger he'd have to consider in the future, when he allowed his associates to use Tristan.

"Ah, here he comes," Asellio said. Germanius looked around, and sure enough, there was Tristan.

The Sarmatian was quiet, of course, but perhaps more introverted than usual. He walked through the estate, wiping the back of his hand over his face. From where Germanius stood on the balcony of his study, he could see the streaks of blood and dirt. But Tristan's hair hung in his face like it always did, and it probably helped him hide the evidence.

Through those bangs and braids, Tristan glanced up at Germanius. He disappeared into the home.

Germanius grinned, and looked to Asellio.

"He is good, no?"

"Yes," Asellio said. The man smiled greedily. "He will continue to be useful."

Tristan walked in at that point, and Germanius hide his smile.

"What took you so long to return?" he demanded. Tristan glared at him.

"I had to hide for a bit," he said.

"Did anyone see you?" Asellio asked next, his tone just as harsh as Germanius's.

Tristan shrugged. "I doubt it. If so, they would have found me."

The Romans looked to each other, and then slowly back at the scout. "Well done," Asellio finally said. Germanius nodded.

"Get cleaned up, in your new chambers," Germanius said. Tristan began to nod, but froze. He had a question in his eyes. "As a reward for your success. You will like your new accommodations."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

His new chambers were . . . peaceful. Tristan slowly wandered through the room. It was wide and open, with wispy fabrics hanging and separating certain coves of the room. A large bed lay on one side, again draped in fabrics. There was also a bath, deep in the room and behind a stone wall.

Flowers and fern plants sat in tall and wide vases. Thick rugs with intricate designs silenced his footsteps.

Yes, it was nice. _A reward_, Germanius had said. It would make life a bit more comfortable for Tristan—this was certainly better than the stone room in the dark halls beneath the estate—but it didn't really silence what he felt.

He'd killed Kulanis. Just walked up behind him and sliced cleanly through the man's throat. Heard the gurgle of the blood welling up in protest. Saw the body just fall, dead, even though Kulanis's eyes stared at him.

Tristan killed the man from behind, and not in battle. It wasn't honorable, by any means. It was cowardly.

And it was murder. He knew it. He knew he'd be asked to do these things. But he didn't imagine he would care. A dead Roman was as good as any. But not like this . . . .

Tristan was numb as he removed his dagger and let it clatter to the marble floor. He walked towards the bed, shedding his clothes and hearing nothing as it fell over the rugs around the bed. He gave his face a final swipe with his hand before he collapsed on the softness.


	10. Seduction

**a/n: **Please review! I'd love to get more feedback, especially on Tristan, since this is very much about him, and not OCs or romance, etc. I hope you're all enjoying this! If not, let me know that too--if people are losing interest, I have other things that really should take priority over this story. Although, that wouldn't stop me from writing at least for myself. :o)

**---- **

**Seduction**

Decia Quintas strode through the marketplace, despite the usual custom of being carried on lavish beds throughout the city. It struck Germanius as uncommonly proud, and not necessarily in a good way. Decia had always been defiant, and even though it suited her, it sometimes grated on his nerves. But she was powerful, a woman not to offend.

She nodded to Germanius, acknowledging him amongst the throng of Roman citizens. Her eyes moved to Tristan, and Germanius had to sneer at that. She came to them.

"Bishop Germanius," she started, her voice lackadaisical. He knew better though—she wasn't as indifferent as she appeared.

"Decia Quintas," he greeted with a slight nod. "How fare you this day?" He could care less for the response, only the real reason she even came to him. With Decia, there were always ulterior motives.

"Well enough." She turned on a heel and motioned with her hand. "Walk with me, alone." To this, Germanius raised an eyebrow. He waved off Tristan, though he doubted the scout cared if he didn't have to guard for a bit. The bishop knew Tristan would like nothing more than for him to die. Even so, Tristan was well aware that if anything looked suspicious in any harm that befell the bishop, Britain was as good as gone.

Decia kept her eyes moving casually, on the lookout for something to buy.

"I wonder about your guard, Germanius," she started. "He is strange."

The bishop smiled. "Indeed he is. He is a mystery." Decia faltered on that, but eventually nodded in agreement.

"What do you know of him?" she asked. Germanius's eyes followed her earrings, dangling from her ears. Her skin was very soft, he noticed.

"Why do you ask?" Her interest in anything was never innocent. And the way she purposely did not look at Germanius, or Tristan, pointed to a hidden agenda.

"I gather Asellio compensated you well for his services," she said bluntly. Germanius coughed before he could stop himself. "Don't try to deny it. I'm not obtuse."

A feeling of dread sunk into the bishop's stomach. "What do you want?"

"The guard's services," she said with a shrug. "I'll compensate you as well. Didn't you say you invite all your _friends_ to use him?" Decia suddenly spotted an ornate bracelet. She fingered it. "Send him to my house tomorrow night."

She bought the bracelet and was gone before Germanius could think of anything to say.

He wondered what task she had for Tristan.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Tristan dreaded the night. Germanius didn't tell him anything, only that he was to go to a certain house and do as the master of the house demanded.

_So this is what slavery is like._ Being a knight for 15 years was almost pleasant in comparison. Tristan followed a servant onto the grounds. It was dark, with shadows of plants lining the paths. Torches lit the way here and there, but it was eerie. Tristan felt like he was being led into a trap.

He rolled his shoulder a bit, shifting the sword strapped to his back. The servant led him through hallways and into a lavish suite. The servant stopped and motioned for Tristan to go forward. The scout kept his hands at his sides, and stood on the balls of his feet—ready for anything.

Almost.

"Sit, please," came a firm, but feminine voice. Tristan cocked his head to the side, looking for the speaker. He moved further into the room until finding her.

_Decia_. She sat back into a plush lounger, with her hair half-down, hanging down in curls. A soft, neutral fabric wrapped around her body with a beaded belt securing it in . . . all the right places.

She gestured to a lounger across from her. Tristan sat cautiously, expecting something . . . maybe even hoping for an excuse to move.

He sat stiffly, his back straight, facing Decia. His mind was swarming with questions, confusion, but he wouldn't let anything on.

"Remove your sword," she said next. Her tone belayed a certain casualness, curiosity. After letting his eyes scan the room for danger, Tristan unsheathed his sword. It flashed against the torch-lit room, and he held the blade up.

Decia gave a muffled laugh. "No, Sarmatian. Remove the scabbard as well. You won't need the blade tonight."

Tristan froze. He wasn't an idiot to the wiles of women, and what she said sounded like . . .

"Come now," she said. "Take it off. Make yourself comfortable." Tristan's muscles started working again, and he did as she asked, though he was anything but comfortable. He set sword back in its scabbard and unlatched it from his back.

"Doesn't your armor bother you?" Decia asked next. Would the woman ever stop with meaningless questions? Tristan wore light armor, nothing too bulky or inhibiting. Her eyes bore into his chest, over his outer chain-mail shirt. Slowly, he untied the knots down the front of the vest, and took it off.

Instantly he regretted it. Now he felt vulnerable, and slightly cold under Decia's scrutiny.

"Do you like Rome?" she asked now, a smile on her face. Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"Did you invite me here for conversation or a task?" A braid fell in front of his eyes, and Tristan pushed it out of the way. The movement drew Decia's gaze, and she let it settle on his eyes. Tristan stared back, more to intimidate than anything else.

Decia suddenly grinned and shifted on her couch. "Both. You intrigue me, Sarmatian. You obviously hate Germanius, but yet you serve him. You're not a simple slave. You were a knight, I imagine."

She waited for him to fill in the gaps, but Tristan just stayed still and silent.

"What does Germanius hold over you that makes you stay?" she asked. Images of Britain and Arthur, the other knights, and Hadrian's Wall came to his mind. Tristan looked down at his hands.

Decia sighed at the silence. "Tell me this, at least." Tristan looked up. "What is your name?"

The scout stared at her, into her eyes that seemed cold, calculating, but curious.

"Tristan."

She smiled immediately. "Tristan," she repeated.

Suddenly even giving her his name made him feel like prey. Tristan stood abruptly.

"If you have no task for me, I should return," he said, reaching for his sword. He heard the fabric draped around her rustle as she stood and came to his side. She caught his wrist within inches from his sword.

Tristan looked at her, challenging her with a chilly look of his own. But she didn't seem angry. Her eyes were soft, her lashes long and batting at him. She laid her other hand on his chest.

"I never said the task would be unpleasant," she whispered to him. "Stay." As if to convince him, the Roman woman traced her hand down his chest. Tristan's heart hardened like iron.

He wrenched his wrist from her grasp and pushed her away.

"If it's companionship you seek, get it from someone else," he said sternly. She fell back on her lounger, and Tristan reached for his vest. He wasted no time in tying it back up in front of his chest and then grabbing his sword.

"Whatever Germanius threatens will happen if you leave," she said. Tristan faltered and glanced at her. Her eyes held a fire in them. "I've paid for your services. For the night, you belong to me."

_Belong. _He hated being treated like a possession. Especially since all she wanted was—

"I thought any man, regardless of station or past, would eagerly bed me," Decia said, her voice no longer angry but flippant. "But I have to admit, I'm not surprise that you refuse." She smiled, pleased at him. Tristan just blinked. "Stay. Let us speak together."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Tristan returned with tired eyes after sunrise. The lady Decia wanted to speak, and she did. Tristan, though, mainly listened. She finally fell asleep, commanding him to stay until sunrise.

As soon as the first rays showed, Tristan left.

The scout walked the route back to Germanius's estate. It was nearly habit, walking through the estate and up to his room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bishop, groggily wandering in the morning pavilion. Germanius waved at him, but Tristan ignored the call and continued to his room.

He fell back on his bed, eager to silence his confused mind. He understood people, but these Romans were so conniving that it made his head hurt. What did Decia want? Women approached him before—he wasn't oblivious to their interest, here or in Britain—but to be so demanding, and blatantly wanting _him_ . . .

It didn't help that he was powerless. He could only do so much without putting himself or what he cared about in danger.

His eyes grew heavy. Tristan didn't realize he fell asleep, not until he awoke suddenly with Germanius entering his chambers. The Sarmatian knight quickly sat up on his bed. He felt slightly ashamed that he was so unaware.

"Did you do all Decia Quintas asked?" he questioned. Tristan glared at him for a moment before laying back on his bed again.

"Enough," Tristan answered simply. He heard the bishop sigh, and it made the scout smile. It was entertaining to frustrate the bishop, and it was also somewhat easy to do. He never had to say a word.

"Rest. I want you to train this afternoon with Ortegius. You'll have something to do later this week."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Ortegius was probably the most skilled of Germanius's personal guard and soldiers, but it didn't take long to defeat him with the wooden sparing swords. Tristan found it funny that they still used the wood swords to spar. It probably had something to do with fear of death, especially since none of them really trusted Tristan. Rightly so . . .

Ortegius suddenly thrust the wooden sword at Tristan, who twisted to the side. The scout swung his blade around quickly and caught the Roman soldier in the left arm. Ortegius roared and lunged at Tristan, even dropping the sword and just plowing into the scout. With a hard bump, the two men fell to the ground. Tristan winced at the impact, but rolled away quickly just the same. He stood, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, ready but weaponless as Ortegius recovered and charged again.

Tristan hadn't been one for hand-to-hand combat, but he found it could be graceful by itself. He didn't possess as much strength with his bare hands as he did with a sword, but he was learning. Ortegius seemed to try to make the training sessions into hand-to-hand combat, simply because he stood a better chance of besting Tristan that way.

The Roman swung a fist at Tristan. Tristan leaned back, tensing his abdomen to keep his balance. As Ortegius's swing continued by, Tristan grabbed the man's wrist and shoved him. He pivoted and then slammed his elbow into the soldier's back. Ortegius groaned and went to his knees with the impact.

And then Tristan saw he had an audience.

_Decia._ The tall, dark-haired woman watched, Germanius at her side. When she came, Tristan didn't know, but she and Germanius exchanged quiet words.

A scrape of a shoe against the ground made Tristan refocus. The sound came from behind him. Tristan took a knee, knowing Ortegius was attacking from behind. His stealth left much to be desired. Tristan twisted on his knees and braced his arms above him for the attack. He blocked a downward strike from Ortegius and then simply pushed the man away.

Tristan stood, his eyes going back to Decia. She and Germanius watched his every move, but kept talking.

"Enough," Tristan said in Ortegius's direction. In between short puffs of breath, he gathered his sword, both real and wood, and left for his chambers.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

The next assignment was another assassination. Tristan waited in the shadows of his target's home. It was a civilian man, no government official or pompous enemy. No, the home he waited in was simple. Unrefined. It reminded Tristan of Britain. Common, but efficient.

The family of the man slept in the next room. The wife, unaware of the danger lurking. Tristan hoped they would remain asleep when the man returned.

Someone entered the home. Tristan removed his dagger and held it close to him. Shadows moved in the flickering candlelight. Footsteps . . . closer . . . closer.

_Now!_

Tristan's left hand shot out and around the man's head, clapping over his mouth. He pulled the man towards him, and with his right hand, plunged the dagger into the man's chest.

The blade sunk into the heart. Tristan could feel the last beats vibrate through the blade and into his hand. The man uttered only a sigh as he died.

His blood was hot. It slipped over Tristan's fingers. Pacing quickly back to the estate, Tristan felt sickened. No matter how careful, death was always messy. The blood would dry soon, making it harder to scrub away.

Germanius was waiting. When he saw the scout, he opened his mouth to say something. Tristan cut him off.

"It's done."

He breezed past the sniveling manipulator, and up to his chambers.

Tristan shut the door behind him, and let out a sigh. The voices in his mind were getting louder, and he didn't like what they were saying. That sickening feeling inside was spreading.

Tristan tossed the dagger in a plant's pot, filled with water. Overnight, the blood would dissolve. He continued through his chambers. He tugged a little frantically at his layers, shedding the vest he always wore and the tunic underneath. He left his chest exposed to the night breeze that came from the balcony.

A basin of water was ready for him in his bathing area. He quickly dipped his hands in it and rubbed his hands together. The blood came off his hands, but the water turned bright red. Bile rose in the back of his throat.

"Tristan."

The voice did not belong to Germanius, and Tristan quickly spun around. He bumped the basin of water, sending the bloody water spilling over the edge. But that didn't matter as much as who was in his room.


	11. Friend or Foe

**a/n:** Thank you very much for the reviews—I hate to admit it, but I'm needy when it comes to reviews, so thanks for "feeding" me on that. This chapter is a bit somber, but I still enjoyed it. The upcoming chapters will be very . . . well, I think you'll like them. :o)

**Friend or Foe**

Twice in as many days, Tristan had been caught unaware. He could blame it on stress, guilt which distracted him, or weariness, but inside he knew he was getting sloppy. He suspected it was simply because he didn't care anymore.

Even so, it bothered him that Decia Quintas was seated on a stone bench on his balcony, facing away from the night and watching him. Droplets of water fell from his hands, tinged pink with the blood of the man he murdered that night.

Tristan swallowed and calmed himself for a moment. A breeze came through, tickling his exposed chest. It made it that much harder to be still. Despite the traces of blood in the water, Tristan wiped his wet hand over his face.

"What do you want?" he asked. He turned away from her, back to the basin to finish cleaning up.

She didn't say anything for several moments, but he could feel Decia's eyes on him. He reached for a towel and dried off his hands and face.

"That scar," she said suddenly. "Do you know what it is?" Tristan glanced over his shoulder briefly. He hadn't really looked at the mark Germanius had cut into his shoulder, only once or twice to ensure it was healing. It was a cross of sorts, but with the horizontal line that was crooked with a dip in the middle. Beside it was a crescent moon.

He finally shrugged. He crossed the room to a fresh shirt.

"It's the mark of an assassin," Decia said. Tristan froze, the shirt half over his arms and ready to be pulled on. _Assassin_. He shook off the meaning and finished dressing.

"Does Germanius know you're here?" he asked. Decia tilted her head to the side, revealing the delicate skin and muscles of her thin neck.

"Yes."

That meant she'd paid for his services again. Tristan hated that—he couldn't forcefully remove her from his chambers.

"It's late," he said. "How long do you intend to stay?"

She smiled.

"Is that an invitation? Tristan, I'm flattered," she cooed. How he hated her voice sometimes, slithering, conniving . . .

He sighed. His eyes flickered to his bed, but knew if he sat there, she would misread the action. He went to the balcony, resting his arms on the stone wall and looking over the quiet of the night. Rome was almost serene at times like these.

Minus the powerful and manipulative woman in his room.

"You've been here for several weeks now, Tristan," she said. She came behind him, her voice tickling his ear. "Has Rome made itself a soft spot in your heart?"

A growl rose in his throat. He swallowed it back, and moved away from her.

"What heart?" he muttered. She heard it, and laughed.

"I take it you don't care for it much then," she said. She leaned forward as he did against the stone wall encasing the balcony. "It is a great place, though. Powerful. Civilized. Much more so than Britain."

He bit his tongue. _Civilized. Yet they murder just the same here, and fight amongst themselves to get a pace ahead. They scheme to gain power for themselves. Nothing more._

There was no greater good here, no concern for the people—there was only selfishness. Part of Tristan missed Arthur's sentimental "save the people" attitude. He himself felt so far from it . . .

"Do you miss it?" she asked, breaking him from his thoughts. Tristan tilted his head to the side, silently asking a question. "Britain?"

The scout looked out over the city. It extended as far as he could see in the night. Where the Colleseum sat would usually be a line of trees and forest, if Tristan were in Britain. Such greenery and nature were uncommon here.

"Yes."

He surprised himself to admit it aloud. Decia looked a bit startled, but she recovered quickly with one of her victorious smiles. Tristan turned his head away so he didn't have to see her.

"What keeps you from returning?"

The breeze kicked up and made his hair fly over his face. Those braids, still wet from the basin's water, swayed in front of him. He found himself watching the locks of hair.

"You obviously hate this life, Tristan," she said, leaning close to his ear again. "Is what you care about worth it?"

Suddenly her lips found his ear, gently brushing against his earlobe. A delightful shudder went through Tristan. Before he could stop himself, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were vibrant, staring at him with passion, seduction, and worse, possession. Decia leaned in, even as Tristan stood there, almost frozen. Her lips lingered near his for a moment before she let herself close the distance.

At the last moment, Tristan put a finger over her lips.

She stared at him, dumbfounded finally. Anger started to simmer there as Tristan just looked back, unaffected, or so he hoped he appeared.

"Yes," he answered belatedly to her question. He pushed her away with that one finger, and turned back to his chambers. He hadn't made it to his bed when he heard Decia storm out with exasperated sighs.

He smiled a victorious grin of his own.

But as the silence settled, a familiar thought plagued him. _Was this all worth it?_

0-0-0-0-

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"Arthur?" Guinevere called. He'd taken to staring off over the land lately, sometimes for several minutes as if nothing else was important. Given how busy her husband was, she knew he needed the moments of quiet thought. But it was starting to disturb her somewhat.

He turned his head, his trance broken. "Yes, Gwen?"

She smiled a bit worriedly at him. "Everything all right?" She knew he would nod without thought, and he did. But after a second, he stopped himself and sighed. Arthur leaned forward against the city wall.

"Not really," he admitted. Guinevere's heart sped up. This was the first time he admitted it, although both knew something had been bothering him for months. Despite the peace and restoration to Britain, Arthur was haunted.

Guinevere leaned against the wall, her back against it and her body comfortably close to her husband.

"Tell me," she urged gently.

Arthur looked past her, over the green hills and fields. He drew a deep breath.

"We're growing," he stated rather plainly. "And with that, we'll have to start acknowledging the rest of the world. Rome won't be blind to our progress."

Guinevere felt her heart freeze, but she tried to maintain a neutral façade.

"You think Rome would feel threatened?" she asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No. And I don't think the church would pursue any hostile course of action." He sighed. "But to keep things peaceful, it would be helpful if they heard from someone here."

"You," Guinevere filled in. Arthur looked at her sharply. "Well, it certainly won't be me. You're the only one they respect. They won't listen to a Woad."

"Briton," Arthur corrected. Guinevere rolled her eyes.

"Regardless," she continued, "we both know it must be you." She paused as Arthur looked away again. "Why does it bother you so?"

Arthur shook his head, as if that were answer enough. The movement made his dark curls rock back and forth. Guinevere reached out a hand, staying those curls and tilting his chin to face her.

"Arthur," she chided softly. Arthur shut his eyes.

"I can't help but feel like a fool," he said, "when I think of all the years I idolized Rome. I proclaimed it was the best place on earth, having never been there to really know for myself." His eyes claimed a familiar far-off look. "And what a price was paid for my foolishness." He sighed and shifted his gaze to his wife. "When I go there, I just don't want to feel the guilt stronger than I already do."

She laid a hand on his chest.

"_When_ you go," she repeated, "you should honor them." Arthur smiled slightly, and took her hand in his. He turned her and put his arms around her slim body.

"I will."

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Another month passed, and Germanius couldn't really complain. His scout had earned him wealth in ways he hadn't planned. Not only was the knight a skilled assassin, elusive as ever, but the constant attentions of Decia Quintas added up to political currency no money could buy.

Of course, she paid the bishop with money as well for her visits with Tristan. The religious man in him did not dwell on why she constantly wanted him. Decia could do what she wanted, and Germanius was far from worried about his scout's salvation.

But Tristan hadn't revealed a thing. He was silent, and didn't elaborate about what Decia wanted.

"We talked," Tristan would say. Germanius snorted at that. _Talked._ He doubted it was just that. But it was very much like the scout to be so secretive.

Decia never told about her visits, and Germanius didn't dare ask her. There were certain lines you just didn't cross with a woman like Decia Quintas. She was growing less powerful though, or at least it seemed so.

Usually she made every man in the senate cower. But her constant attention to Tristan distracted her normal dominance over the senators and politicians of Rome. As such, her usual crowd sneered at her now. Behind her back, of course.

Germanius did ask her once—what was it about Tristan that fascinated her?

She just smiled cryptically, and flipped a strand of hair over her slightly exposed shoulder.

_Women_.

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Tristan was more than used to the darkness. He found himself up at night anyway, and sleeping more in till late morning. It was more comfortable that way. And it made it easier when he had a 'task.'

Tonight, the moon was out in just a sliver. He touched the crescent moon scar on his shoulder, a conscious gesture of his purpose. The air was muggy and still, but Tristan still wore his leather and chain-mail vest. He ran lightly atop the building's roof, leaping to the next and crouching down to observe the street below him.

It was still, with a slumbering pair of guards outside the door of a simple estate. It was large, to be sure, but not as ornate as others. The owner was a sloppy man, one who bought influence and respect, but never really earned it. He was known for his nasty nature and absurd ideas. Frankly, he was a bother, or at least that's how Germanius spoke of him. Occasionally, Decia mentioned the man as well.

The kill was automatic, first the guards, then boldly and steadily walking inside to the main chambers. He unsheathed his sword, something he'd started using lately. It was more artful, and with it Tristan could vary the monotony . . .

Two slashes. It was always over too quickly.

Tristan resheathed his sword and slowly walked back towards Germanius's estate.

He took a detour, a familiar one. Tristan kept to the shadows but made his way to the marketplace by the seaport. He ducked inside one building, and climbed to its roof. Facing the ocean, he sat and waited.

As the first rays of the sun hit him, he closed his eyes and just savored the slightly warm feel. It wasn't much warmth, not that Rome was cold, but somehow it made Tristan feel a small measure of peace. He didn't feel that much anymore. Did he ever before?

How would he know? All that his life entailed now was death.

The rays intensified, making his face hot. The marketplace took its time coming to life, as if the sun rose too early today. Tristan just listened to the normal, everyday occurrences. They soothed him . . .

In some ways, he wished he were the apple merchant, or a baker or a fish monger. Maybe things would be better . . . or maybe then he would wish he were a scout, a fierce fighter, a knight . . .

Tristan stood and brushed off the dirt on his clothing. His eyes lingered on the ocean and a few ships that bobbed a bit on the water. His stomach still churned a bit at the sight, but he welcomed it. At least some things still sickened him.

The rest of the day passed without incident or anything of interest. Tristan merely lay in his chambers, waiting for darkness to come and his restlessness to continue.

0-0-0-0-

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Tristan was changing. She could tell. He'd never been a warm, affectionate man. His words certainly didn't reveal anything. But his manner changed. He was weary and downtrodden, but obedient as ever.

He did what Germanius asked. He tolerated Decia's visits. But he didn't speak much. He didn't to begin with, but the spark in his words was gone. Decia used to be able to get him to reveal some emotion or a long sentence. Over the last few months, Tristan was just there.

She tried to pique his interest. Decia tried her best attire. Her most seductive words. Her intense passion. Her caresses and whispers. Never once did he blink an eye. She might as well have offered him a rotten cake.

Decia sat in the courtyard amidst a slew of senators. She listened half-heartedly. Her eyes moved about the room, trying to find someone to charm with her looks.

"Arthur Castus sends word that he comes to Rome," Senator Patrius announced. "With him come the famous Sarmatian knights, those that are still alive."

"He is king now, is he not?" another senator piped up. "Self-proclaimed, but what can one expect of Britain?"

Chuckles resounded around the courtyard. Decia frowned, but leaned forward intently.

"Even so, it would be good to welcome him. He is, after all, Roman."

Decia stood and left as the senators moved on to mundane matters. Inside, her blood raced and her mind was in a flurry of thoughts and plans. Arthur, King of the Britons . . . perhaps he might know of a cause that Tristan was so loyal to?

And Sarmatian knights . . . it was not all coincidence. Decia smiled. She would see to it that she finally discovered the mystery behind Tristan. For her, it would be like breaking the knight. It would be a pleasure, after all this time and waiting . . .


	12. Welcome to Rome

**a/n: **As usual, please review! I love your comments! The next chapter should be along in a few days . . . .

**Welcome to ****Rome**

"Arthur, remind me never to travel by sea again," Gawain said, burping queasily. It was a better alternative to what he'd done a few times already over the side of the ship. Bors just laughed, ever the strong one with an iron stomach.

Arthur grinned at his knights. Galahad drew deep breaths of the salty air. The young man was excited, despite all his protests about Rome. The city was within view now, and the men shifted about excitedly.

The King of Britain looked ahead, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar horizon. His heart raced within him. It was massive. And as such an intimidating force, would Rome still be friendly?

The sight of several elite people standing on the docks answered his question. They waved, and judging by their garb, they were appointed leaders of the people. He saw bishops as well, who gathered to see him arrive. It was awkward to be on display, but Arthur was used to a certain amount of fame. It'd only gotten worse as a king.

Beside him, his knights flanked him. They were always protective, even though he didn't think the Romans would be dangerous. This was more of a diplomatic visit anyway. Seeing Rome was the only excitement he expected.

He disembarked and greeted the leaders waiting for him.

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Germanius quickly heard that Arthur was in Rome. The bishop did his best to remain calm—if the scout knew . . .

But he didn't.

What did Germanius have to worry about? Rome was massive, the greatest city in the world. The odds were not in favor of him running into Arthur. Besides, Tristan could be controlled.

The bishop rode in his carriage towards a well-lit home. Servants lined the entry way. Golden torch light and colorful banners abounded as the guests moved inside the estate. Hundreds of prominent Romans came for a gala of sorts.

It was hosted by Decia Quintas, something Germanius did not like. The woman was always scheming, and he wondered what trick she had in mind now. As his carriage stopped, Germanius halted Tristan from exiting.

"Stop," he said simply. The knight obeyed, looking to Germanius with slight curiosity. The bishop smiled easily. "I hear Arthur and the knights live happily. Britain thrives now, you know."

Tristan just stared at him.

"It is good, no? Your service is not in vain." Germanius thought to say more but feared he'd give something away. He stepped out of the carriage and led the way into the estate.

0-0-0-0-

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He sipped at some wine, too fruity to be enjoyable, but Tristan drank anyway. He felt uneasy, and he didn't know why. Part of him thought that his instincts were telling him some danger was nearby. But his 'duty' was to protect Germanius, so really he didn't care what his instincts said.

The Romans laughed. The flirtatious giggles of the women filled his ears, and Tristan suppressed a shudder. They were so insincere. Every noblewoman he'd met had some hidden purpose. That much was obvious as they hung on unattractive, rich old men, or flirted with him even as their husbands stood nearby.

Tristan turned away with a silent sigh. He moved up the stairs and positioned himself above the crowd. He watched with half-interest and awareness.

Until his eyes fell on four men.

Their figures were easy to discover as unusual. They weren't dressed in togas, but reduced armor. Only one was dressed slightly as a Roman . . .

_Arthur!_ Tristan's heart jolted within him. Anxiously he leaned forward against a column on the second tier. That curly head of hair on him, and messier curls on Galahad could not be mistaken. Bors was there, his head shorn except for the recent stubble. And Gawain . . All appeared well—they just mingled with the Romans.

Suddenly Gawain laughed heartily, just ahead of the others. The four joked with each other in front of some Roman ladies. From where Tristan stood, he saw Galahad turn red.

His heart settled down, hardening up again. How happy they were, just as Germanius had said. _Good for them_, Tristan thought without a trace of joy. Why had fate smiled kindly on them, while he lived like this . . .

Tristan turned sharply, and almost ran into Germanius. The bishop looked smug. His eyes narrowed at the knight.

"See someone you know?" he asked. His eyes were dark, with a speck of torch light glaring off them. Tristan raised his chin silently. "If they see you, or you speak to them, I'll give the order."

There was no need to remind him what the order was. Tristan's defiance rose at once. Yet two seconds later, he knew it was pointless. There was only one solution, and it didn't involve defiance at all.

Slowly, somberly, Tristan nodded.

"We leave at once," Germanius said. "Stay out of sight, and meet me at the carriage."

The man scurried away, his robes billowing after him. Tristan watched, unmoving for several moments. His muscles tensed and it took all he had to not yell out. He was never a loud man, nor irrational. But inside, he was torn apart.

He wanted to call to Arthur, to Gawain, Bors, even Galahad.

He wanted to forget it all, and just run from this cursed place and anywhere and anyone he'd ever known.

He wanted to kill Germanius and Orteguis and Asellio and Decia Quintas . . .

He wanted this to end.

All of it.

Another breath, and Tristan just held it all in. Slowly he released the air and walked stiffly towards the front of the estate. He would leave, as ordered. What other choice did he have, one he would actually risk?

Tristan drew a steadying breath. He shut his eyes and wished to nothing in particular that he could do this.

He opened his eyes and headed for the stairs. A drunken Roman couple laughed as they clumsily fell in his path. Tristan side-stepped them and moved on. He hurried down the stairs and then evened out his pace as he hit the main level. Several people were in his way, oblivious in their merriment. Tristan weaved among them, using his hands to separate a path where necessary.

The open air was ahead of him, away from the buildings. He had only to clear the lavish entryway—

"Tristan!"

The scout glanced over his shoulder before he could stop himself. He recognized the voice. Decia stood there, her face light and happy. She motioned for him to come to her, but just past her—in fact right behind her—were Arthur and the knights.

Their eyes met immediately. All four Britons let their jaws drop.

"Tristan?" Arthur repeated. He took a step forward. "What . . ."

His heart sped up again, so fast that Tristan was gasping for breath. His instincts warned him. Quickly, he surveyed the area.

His eyes found Ortegius. _What? He doesn't normally come with Germanius._

Tristan straightened his stance. _Germanius knew Arthur was here._ Tristan shot a blank look to his friends, and turned away.

"Wait! Tristan!"

"Tristan!"

"_Tristan!_"

One of the voices was Decia's, but it was the desperation in the knights' that made him cut through the crowd faster. This couldn't happen, not now or in so vulnerable a position.

He started to run. The bishop's carriage was not where it had been before, and Tristan could see it nowhere. From Decia's estate, he heard shouts following him. Tristan ran down the street and quickly cut down a small path, a short cut and hiding place he'd used on his assignments. His legs did not falter, and soon nothing but quiet followed him.

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"It was him," Gawain said confidently.

"How could it be him!" Bors roared. He paced around Gawain, who was amazingly languid given the situation. The knights stood in the middle of the dark streets of Rome, none of them certain about . . . anything.

"Of course it was him," Galahad piped up. "No one else could disappear like that."

"And without saying anything," Gawain added. It almost drew a smile from each of the men. Arthur held his head in his hands for a moment. He sighed.

"The lady called him Tristan, and it certainly seems like it was him," he said. "What I wonder is what has he been doing since we saw him last?"

The thought silenced the three knights, and spurred Arthur on. He began to pace as well.

"Has he been here the entire time? And why!"

"Perhaps we can discover that together," came a new voice. The knights whirled around to see the lady from the night's festivities. She was tall and held her chin high.

"And you are?" Arthur asked, stepping toward her. He couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy with this woman.

"Decia Quintas," she said. "You are the famous knights from Britain, are you not?"

Arthur gave her a short nod. "How do you know Tristan?" he asked hastily. The woman raised an eyebrow at his manner. She glanced to each of the knights briefly before choosing to answer.

"He is the guard of Bishop Germanius," she said, "among other things." Arthur frowned and looked over his shoulder at the knights. Equally confused expressions were on their faces as well.

"Be more specific, Lady Quintas," Arthur pressed. "Tell us all you know."

She cocked her head to the side, and for a moment she looked amused.

"No," she said. "I need my answers first." Bors moved towards her, no doubt to strangle the woman for her stubbornness but Arthur cut him off.

"You said Germanius employs Tristan?" Arthur clarified. Again, the mysterious woman just stared at him, a trace of a grin on her lips.

"Hmm. I think it's more complicated than that." She turned from the men. "Come back to my estate. We can speak there."

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Tristan was out of breath by the time he made it back to Germanius's estate. The place was eerily dark, and Tristan slowed to a cautious pace. There were normally torches at least . . .

And where was Germanius? Tristan expected him to be anxiously pacing the balcony, watching and waiting. The scout entered the main house, and made his way to his chambers. For now, what else could he do?

He tried not to think about the evening's events. He didn't know how he felt. Hopeful? Not really—if anything, seeing the knights made him nervous. Germanius might panic or worse, order their deaths . . . Tristan couldn't let that happen.

As soon as he stepped foot in his chambers, he knew something was wrong. It was only a second later that he found out what. A strong hand gripped him by the neck. Tristan's hands flew to his neck, trying to pry the pressure away. A new set of hands gripped his arms. There must have been at least three of them, he discovered—the third man hit him in the stomach.

His legs gave out beneath him. Tristan stumbled and coughed through the choke hold on him. Suddenly light filled the room. Germanius stood by a freshly-lit torch. He sat on a lounging sofa, watching as the men handled Tristan. One of them was Ortegius, ever happy for this . . .

Tristan glared at the bishop and Ortegius.

"I did nothing wrong," he said choppily. The first response he received was immediate—Ortegius backhanded him across the cheek. Tristan's head whipped to the side.

"You shouldn't have been seen," Germanius said. "Arthur knows you're alive now, and _that_ is unacceptable." Tristan saw the man wave his hand. The man with his hand around Tristan's throat tightened his grip. Tristan squirmed, trying to get air. Ortegius pulled the scout away and forced him to the ground on his stomach. He planted a heavy foot on Tristan's back. The two other soldiers stood by, ready to pitch in.

Ortegius slammed his foot on Tristan's back. Tristan yelled out for a moment before biting down on his lips. One of the soldiers kicked him in his side, once, twice. Ortegius seized him, rolled him on his back and kneeled as he punched him solidly in the chest. Tristan tried to ward off a second hit.

It just made them all angry. This was not a time to resist. As the hits came continuously, Tristan learned this was about submission, again. Submission to punishment. To what he'd done wrong. To the fact he could do nothing. To Germanius and whatever he wanted.

The bishop sat and watched the beating. He leaned forward, relishing the groans that escaped Tristan's mouth. Tristan was hit in the face again. The force cut into his skin, sending a fickle spray of blood onto the floor.

He tried to wipe away the blood, but his arms weren't working. Ortegius grabbed Tristan by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the floor. Tristan tried to use his legs a bit, but they were also sluggish. His weary eyes opened enough to see the bathroom of his chambers. And then suddenly it was as if Ortegius didn't know what to do. He glanced around, looking for something. Tristan watched, unable to do anything more. The Roman grabbed a vase and brought it down on Tristan.

The impact drew a black curtain in Tristan's mind. Vaguely he could hear the vase shatter.

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"He's been with Germanius then?" the youngest knight repeated. Decia nodded. She measured each of the knight's reactions.

"He hated Germanius," Bors said aloud.

"He still does," Decia added. The knights looked at her. "He hates it here. He hates serving Germanius. I asked him once why he stayed."

Arthur leaned forward in his seat. "What did he say?"

Decia smiled.

"Nothing." She poured a new glass of wine, even though it was late in the night. "My guess is that Germanius has threatened something Tristan cares about."

The men frowned, looking to each other to discern the reason. It was almost adorable how much they relied on each other. If Tristan was a fellow knight for so long, he certainly didn't fit this mold, not when he was so quiet and independent.

"Where does Germanius live?" Arthur asked.

Decia raised an eyebrow. "You intend to confront him?" The knights all stood, as if they would barge down any door in their way. "Tell me this, then. I take it Tristan was a brother in arms." They nodded to her. "Then why did you abandon him?"

She could almost feel the horror within them. She knew they probably didn't abandon Tristan, but the looks on their faces were priceless. She couldn't resist.

Gawain looked like he might just strangle her, but Arthur laid a hand on his shoulder.

"We thought he was dead," he said. He looked off, up into the sky as if remembering something. Decia wondered what it might be. Suddenly the tall king shook his head. "Thank you for your help, lady."

He left, his men falling in step behind him. Decia watched them skeptically. They were confident, but whatever they did, Decia knew they might be in over their heads. Germanius wasn't a man to challenge—especially not in Rome.


	13. In Limbo

a/n: Long, long chapter. Please review, b/c I need it! Thanks for reading!

**In Limbo**

Tristan jolted awake when he hit the ground. Wearily, he opened his eyes. He was in his room, by his bed and staring at someone's feet. Tristan looked up. Ortegius towered over him.

"Get up. Germanius wants you downstairs," he said. Tristan suppressed a groan and tried to push himself off the floor. His arms wouldn't respond though. They were tied behind his back. Ortegius sighed and rolled his eyes. He grabbed Tristan by the elbow, wrenching the scout up to his feet. The soldier pushed him ahead, and it took all the strength Tristan could muster to walk straight.

It was day now, and judging by the harshness of the sun it was near noon. Tristan stumbled down the stairs. He leaned against the wall to steady himself, but Ortegius just pushed him along. Tristan tripped and fell down a few stairs, landing at the base.

He groaned before he could stop himself. The fall just aggravated the soreness throughout his body. His limbs felt strained.

"Nice of you to join us," he heard Germanius said.

"Tristan!"

He looked up sharply, recognizing the voice. Suddenly Tristan felt ashamed, beaten and on the floor in front of Arthur. Galahad, Gawain and Bors all wore shocked expressions, and before his eyes he could see them changing to rage.

"I was just telling the British King about our arrangement," Germanius said. Tristan glared at the man. "About your services in exchange for your life which I saved."

Arthur stepped forward, jabbing a finger in the bishop's face.

"You said you hadn't seen him," he said. "You granted his freedom already. How can you take it away now?"

Germanius feigned innocence. Tristan had to look away before he got sick.

"I assure you Tristan is here quite willingly."

Tristan glanced at the man sharply. Beside him, Ortegius stepped forward, kicking Tristan slightly in the ribs. Arthur drew his sword and held it at the soldier's throat.

"Willingly?" he repeated. "And yet you _beat_ him! I am not a fool, Germanius!"

The bishop smiled evilly. "No, you are not. Perhaps you should know what your knight has become." He motioned to Ortegius.

Ortegius grabbed Tristan by the back of the shirt and dragged him to a table. He pushed Tristan so he bowed over the table. The soldier ripped the scout's shirt at the collar, and Tristan felt the air hit his exposed shoulder—specifically his right shoulder. He shut his eyes.

Arthur gasped. "No," he said. He recognized what it was, but the knights looked to one another.

"What is it?" Bors asked.

"Yes," Germanius said, ignoring the question. "He became an assassin. It is I who saved him from execution. He is repenting, Arthur."

Tristan's stomach churned. The bishop was better at lying than the devil himself. He wanted to deny it, to shout out what really happened. But Tristan wasn't foolish. Arthur and the knights were sitting ducks here—they would be killed if they resisted at all.

"Tristan," he heard Arthur say. His voice was gentle, as if he were speaking to a child. "Is this true?"

From how the question was asked, Tristan knew Arthur didn't believe it. Germanius's eyes bore into his back. The scout tried to open his mouth but the lies couldn't come.

"Please, Arthur," he managed to croak out. "Leave."

Arthur didn't say anything. Tristan's body was tense. He hoped his commander would just do as he pleaded, without question. Instead, he heard the rustle of Arthur's clothing as he knelt by Tristan. He shot a warning look to Ortegius, who backed away enough so Tristan's body wasn't pressed into the short table.

"Tristan," he said again. The scout's heart pounded against his chest, in conjunction with his lungs rapidly expanding and contracting. He didn't dare look at Arthur; instead, his eyes remained focused on the floor.

The silence between them spanned far too long, but Tristan knew how to be quiet, and how silence itself was an answer. It was enough of one here for Arthur to give up.

He got to his feet, whirling around to Germanius again.

"Rome will not stand for this, Germanius," he challenged. "I will go to the Senate myself—"

"The Senate?" Germanius interrupted. "What—you, the leader of a foreign nation, to demand something of a country not your own?" He scoffed shamelessly. "It won't change a thing, Arthur. Tristan is in my servitude by _choice_."

Arthur jerked at the word. He looked again to Tristan.

"Then he should have the choice to leave," he said. Tristan's stomach dropped. _No, Arthur._ This wouldn't go anywhere good. Germanius was probably ready with a dozen men, waiting to kill Arthur. The bishop grinned and looked down on Tristan. He waved at him to rise. Tristan tried to balance himself even with his arms tied behind his back. He staggered, wavering a bit, and Arthur caught him by the elbow.

"Release him," Arthur hissed. Tristan didn't want to think about what he looked like, so beaten and restrained. He even felt crusted blood over his face, but he wasn't sure from what. It all felt worse with his former comrades as witnesses.

Germanius ignored Arthur. "Tristan, do you want to leave?" His dark beady eyes bore into the scout. Tristan tried not to sneer at the man. _There is no choice._ He shook his head.

"There, you see?" Germanius started. Arthur held up a hand.

"Tristan," he said, "I want to hear it from you. This is your _chance!_"

Tristan stared at Arthur. Was he so naïve to believe it was that simple? There was no chance here for him, and yet Arthur would wave it in his face. _No_, the scout thought. _You know your answer, even if it denies you freedom while they enjoy it._

"I'm staying," he whispered. Arthur took a step back.

"What!" Bors yelled fiercely. Gawain clenched his fists.

"Tristan, no—"

"Come back with us!" Galahad said. Despite himself, Tristan cocked his head to the side. He and Galahad had never really gotten along well. It was odd to hear him now, after all their fights and goading. Tristan swallowed.

He shook his head, tossing his braids and hair in front of his eyes.

"There, you see?" Germanius said. "He's made his decision. And now I must ask you to leave." The bishop stepped towards the entrance and motioned to it. "You have created enough disturbance for one day, Arthur."

Arthur just glared at Germanius. Tristan felt his body tighten with the tension. _Just go,_ he thought over and over again. And finally, Arthur moved to leave. But his eyes stayed on Germanius, warning him without words.

"We're leaving?" Galahad asked in surprise. Arthur's eyes softened as they laid on Tristan, and hardened again as they went back to Germanius.

"For now."

Tristan looked at the ground. He didn't dare move his eyes away from it. The shame he felt consumed him, even though his mind told him that this was best, a nobler cause and sacrifice. Yet being at Germanius's mercy ate at him. _This is the only way._ He heard the retreating footsteps of the knights. His heart sped up as his mind kept running in circles.

_Call to them!_

_No,_ he told himself. _No. Not this time._

Before he could waver further, Ortegius seized him by the neck. Tristan choked once as the soldier forced him towards the table, so hard and so fast that he lifted Tristan by the neck and slammed him on the table top. The scout groaned; his arms were twisted, bound behind his back, as he was forced to lay on them. Ortegius didn't care, and from the corner of his eye he saw Germanius smile and come to his side.

"I know what you're thinking, scout," he said. His lip snarled up, but Tristan tried to concentrate on breathing. Ortegius held him by the neck still as he lay face up. Tristan bucked under the hold, the pressure greater and greater on his throat. He arched his back and kicked out, more just to find some relief than to be defensive.

He gagged on his own throat.

"You think your friends are safe. Maybe you think they will come for you again," he said. Tristan immediately disliked where the bishop was going with this.

"I – didn't—" Tristan coughed and tried to speak between the mounting pressure over his neck. Ortegius grinned down at him.

"I'll have them all killed, Tristan," Germanius said. "All of them. If you tell them anything, or try to leave, it will be over."

Tristan kicked out again with his feet. They slid off the table. Orteguis laughed quietly, and in Germanius's voice he could hear laughter. Tristan tried to move his arms, to push himself up and break away from the chokehold Ortegius had on him.

The Roman soldier squeezed harder on his throat. Tristan opened his mouth, trying in vain to get some air. He shut his eyes as dark spots appeared in his vision.

"Do you understand, Tristan?" he heard Germanius say somewhere. He couldn't think about replying. Suddenly Ortegius released him. Tristan fell awkwardly back against the table. He tried to take a breath, but Ortegius hit him in the chest. He coughed and sputtered, rolling to the side as he tried to suck in air. The air wouldn't come though. He gasped, his mouth agape and his eyes wide in panic.

Germanius merely watched him. "Do you understand?" he asked again, this time with more disdain. Tristan shut his eyes and heaved against the floor. He tried to nod, anything to avoid more from the bishop and Ortegius. The blackness crept in, filling his vision more and more.

He shut his eyes and gave a final nod before passing out.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Germanius's estate emanated waves of tension in the air. Decia felt it immediately as she stepped foot on the grounds. She trusted her instincts and moved ahead with caution.

A servant led her to the bishop, who poured over books in his study. He looked up with alarm and then delight when he recognized her.

"Decia Quintas," he greeted. His voice sounded cheerful but forced. Decia tilted her head slowly to the side.

"Bishop Germanius," she said with a nod. "I've come to buy your guard's services for the night." The man flinched at the word 'services,' no doubt suspecting the most lascivious thing possible.

Germanius leaned back in his chair, letting the pages of his book flutter and losing his place. "No," he said. "Tristan is . . . in need of some reflection tonight. He has disobeyed me."

Decia sighed dramatically. "I'll pay you double my usual price, Germanius."

The bishop swallowed awkwardly and shifted in his seat. He shook his head.

"He is unwell," he tried. "And I've had to bind him in his room." Decia rose an eyebrow over her delicate features. Slowly she showed a sly grin.

"Really?" she said. "Even better." She reached into her robes and removed a heavy purse. Without any consideration of rejection, she tossed it so it landed with a loud thud on Germanius's desk. The bishop eyed it greedily.

And he said nothing. Decia turned from him with a wave at her servants to stay behind. She ascended the stairs to Tristan's chambers.

A Roman soldier was outside the chambers. Decia waved him off as well. He blinked but moved away without question. She loved the power she had over men.

Decia let herself in and shut the door behind her. There was no light, no fires lit, just the natural moonlight that faintly spilled in from the balcony. She stepped quietly, listening to the stillness. She could almost feel the scout watching her, but from where she wasn't sure. He had to be, though—it was his nature.

She weaved her way through the room, coming to his bed, but it was empty. Perplexed, she went closer, as if he would suddenly appear in the dark. Yet again, nothing. Decia huffed and continued her search. The bathroom was empty, the stone benches unattended, and seemingly everywhere there was no Tristan.

The lady sighed. She ran a hand over her robes, smoothing out the fabric and feeling the silky softness of it. The hand moved up to her hair, tweaking it next. She drew a deep breath.

Something scuffed out on the balcony. Decia tilted her head to the side. She quickly went to the balcony. Her foot hit something as she stepped into the night air. Decia gave a small yelp, and at her feet was Tristan. He groaned and shifted away from her.

"Watch where you're going," he mumbled. His hands were tied in front of him, and his feet were bound as well. He was lying on his back on the stone balcony floor, his eyes closed except for a brief peering look at Decia.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with a gasp.

"It's my room."

Decia sighed, frustrated. "I meant on the balcony." Tristan shrugged, making his tied hands rise a bit.

"It feels better out here," he said. He sat up slowly, and even though it was dark, Decia could see him grimace. But he made himself do it, and scooted back against a wall. Soft bluish light from the moon revealed little, but she could tell he was hurting. There were patches of discoloration on his face. His tunic was torn, and she saw bruises where his skin was exposed. She frowned in disgust.

_Germanius_.

That was one thing that separated them. Germanius used force, while Decia knew there were . . . other ways to getting what she wanted. Persuasion. Coercion. Simply proper motivation is all it took . . .

She blinked the thoughts from her mind and studied Tristan.

"Why don't you free yourself?" she asked, a nod at the ropes around his appendages. Again the scout just shrugged.

"They just put them back on," he justified. "Might as well save me some trouble anyway."

_That_ certainly wasn't what she expected. What happened to the silent defiance and flare that the scout used to have? Germanius was drowning him, killing that spark. And yet, Tristan was ever mysterious and intriguing. Decia's eyes wandered over his body, lingering on the bruises and moving over the scrapes.

"Are you hurt?" she asked directly. Tristan didn't even flinch at the slight concern. He turned his head to look through the spaces between the balcony's stone railing, out over the estate. The shapes of the grand edifices of Rome stood out further in the night.

He didn't say anything. It might as well have been that Decia didn't ask the question. She suppressed a sigh and knelt down next to him.

She began to prod him, rubbing her fingers over his bruises. He flinched once, but then seemed to turn to stone as she continued. Her hands slid to his chest, over his shoulders and down the sculpted definition of his muscles. She thought she felt him shudder . . .

"Why are you here?" Tristan asked. His voice was barely above a whisper. Decia smiled, her lips turning up gracefully and softly. It bordered on compassion, and she was fine with that.

"Don't you want someone to look after you?" she asked teasingly. Tristan's muscles tensed visibly, and he pressed his body against the wall behind him. Decia laughed quietly to herself.

"Arthur sent me," she said. Tristan straightened up. "He knows you are hiding something and that the bishop is lying. He begs to know the truth, so that he may help you."

Was it just a breeze that caused it, or did he flinch when she said the word 'help'? The Sarmatian turned his eyes to his bound hands.

"Tell Arthur he must return to Britain at once," he said. His voice was as steel. "He should not waste any time or thought on me."

Decia smiled again. She knew it—yes, Tristan was protecting something, someone, but Arthur was blind to see who. The scout's insistence on Arthur returning gave it away. Germanius threatened Tristan's last link to his old life, his freedom—the knights. _How interesting._

She hadn't thought Tristan would attach himself to anyone, but he was indeed noble. The warrior within him demanded honor, and it was manifested subtly despite his cool exterior.

He was watching her, observing her quiet thoughts. His eyes narrowed at her, not to threaten but to understand.

"What?" he asked. Decia shook her head.

"How did it happen?" she asked. "I know Germanius forced you into this. But how did he get past the fierce warrior?" His features hardened again. When he didn't answer, Decia cleared her throat. "Arthur won't leave when he knows you're protecting him."

He looked away, and through the darkness he saw him draw a slow breath through his mouth.

"Then don't tell him anything."

"I've barely met him, yet I know that would only fuel him," she said. "How did it happen?"

Tristan bit down on his lip. At first he shook his head, but he opened his mouth to give an answer. "Germanius interfered when I was fighting a Saxon," he said.

"Interfered?"

The knight sighed and looked away. "He stopped the Saxon from killing me." Decia opened her mouth to ask another question, but stopped herself. She remained silent, her eyes feasting upon Tristan, pressing him without words. It was a technique she knew would bother him.

Finally he turned to her, looking directly into her eyes. Decia felt her heart's pace increase and with it, a delightful sensation of excitement went through her.

"The Saxon got past me," he said in a rush of words. "I was hurt—enough so when I woke up, the battle was over, and Germanius had me."

Decia could almost see it. And it amused her—the gall of Germanius! Right on the battlefield, right under the noses of the other knights! If Arthur knew. . .

She tried to hide her amusement. The whole thing was unfortunate for the scout, and she didn't fault him or think him weak for even being captured. Perhaps it was luck anyway, because he was here now.

Decia raised her hand gently. Her eyes stayed on Tristan, staring back into his intimidating eyes, through those messy braids. She touched one of them, pushing it to the side. Her fingertips brushed his skin, but he didn't move. He just watched.

Inside, she felt encouraged. But she hid that. She dropped her hand slowly, her long fingers barely caressing his face, down his neck, and finally nothing but air. She raised her hand again, and brushed away some more hair. Her movements repeated, tracing lightly down his face. Tristan closed his eyes.

She could hear him breathe out. His shoulders dropped, and he actually looked relaxed for once. He never looked more inviting or handsome. Decia slid her body closer to him. He didn't flinch this time.

His lips, thin but delicious, parted slightly as he breathed. _How wonderful they must taste._ Decia leaned into him. Her body pressed into his, gently though since she knew he was sore. His eyes moved beneath his lids, but he didn't move away. Decia took it as acceptance.

She kissed him slowly. Her eyes closed as she savored the feel. All thoughts but one ceased in her mind: _more._ She deepened the kiss, pressing against his lips more fervently. His mouth moved against hers, pushing back into her passion. Though he wasn't as enthused, he did respond—and that was plenty for her.

It couldn't have lasted long enough for Decia. It might have gone on for a mere second or an hour, but she yearned for more regardless. Tristan, though, pulled away. He looked down at his hands, trying his best to keep his eyes from her. Something about it was adorable, and Decia leaned in to kiss him again.

"Tell Arthur he should leave quickly," Tristan said, cutting off a second, long kiss. He kept his eyes away from hers, and stared off into the night. The dismissal made Decia's blood flow quickly, and she felt the heat of rejection burn her skin.

But just as quickly as it spread throughout her, she bit back every remark she wanted to utter, every reaction, and just stood.

"Good night, Tristan," she said. It took every ounce of composure in her. She turned away, but stopped herself. With a seductive look back at him, Decia leaned down to him and cupped his chin in her hand. She brushed her thumb over his tattooed cheek and gave him a small smile.

And then she left. There was much to be done.


	14. Plotting

a/n: First off, I should only post on weekends, because the response was amazing! Thanks so much for the reviews! I love it! And one note: I know some of you have commented that Tristan wouldn't have survived his battle wounds as seen in the movie. I agree. But I never described it as being as deep or serious—not fatal. Anyway, just so you know. Please keep reviewing! This was an especially hard chapter to write.

**Plotting**

Arthur's continuous pacing was getting on everyone's nerves. He knew this, but he wasn't about to stop. He had too much on his mind. The sun was up, burning high in the heavens. It was late. She should have been back by now.

Perhaps he should have felt bad or worried for Decia Quintas—sending her in with a message from him was risky, especially right in Germanius's estate, under his very nose. But Arthur couldn't find any such sentiments in his heart. Something prevented it—maybe even the overriding outrage about Tristan's condition.

"We should just have killed him there," Bors said aloud. It came from nowhere, but yet each knight knew was he was talking about. Arthur had felt that rush within himself, that heated blaze of anger for justice. How much he wanted to run Germanius through with Excalibur.

But he didn't. Not after what Tristan confessed. But that even was bizarre, no matter how much Tristan was good at and liked to kill before. He was just a great warrior, a perfect knight in battle. _Would he really become an assassin? Why? Why run from __Britain_

_ Why stay with Germanius as his slave?_ The very word of servitude caused Arthur to clench his fists.

"Here she comes," Gawain announced. Arthur looked up; sure enough, Decia strode towards them, her head high. Arthur felt his heart harden. Something about this woman . . .

Galahad leapt down from a stone wall he sat upon, landing in front of Decia eagerly.

"You've seen him?" he asked. Decia smiled sweetly and gave a nod. She turned to Arthur, though, and her face suddenly became grave.

"But he will not come," she went ahead and said. It hit Arthur hard, but he waited for her to continue. "He wouldn't reveal anything but he insisted that you leave as quickly as possible."

Arthur frowned.

"Insisted?" he repeated. He'd never seen Tristan _insist_ on anything—it seemed too expressive for him.

Decia nodded. She opened her mouth to say something more, but then hesitated. Arthur wondered why. "Arthur," she started, "I think it is for _you_ that he stays."

The tall Roman took a step back.

"Germanius has threatened you, and your men—and I think if Tristan does anything, the bishop will kill you all." Decia looked to each man, and Arthur knew the bewilderment he felt showed openly. The words repeated in his mind.

And then anger followed. Arthur clenched his fists. The very thought that Tristan was . . .

And for them! Suffering, when--

Arthur whirled around and smacked a vase, sending it flying across the room. As it shattered, the knights snapped out of their own raging thoughts.

Bors yelled, a mighty and dangerous shout to the wind. Galahad placed his hands on his hips and started to pace, and Gawain stood somewhat blankly, still processing it all. Arthur looked to them.

"We will not leave him to suffer, not while we live _free_!"

The men nodded to him. Arthur didn't see Decia behind him, smiling at the resolution.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Germanius swirled the wine within his goblet, studying it dumbly. It wasn't the liquid that held his attention so raptly so much as what Decia Quintas told him that afternoon.

The sun was setting, and Germanius knew he had little time. Even so, he didn't hurry. Arthur would be careful, whatever he was planning, and caution could not be hastened.

_So Arthur plans to free Tristan_. He thought some trouble might come because of the scout. Decia confirmed it. Never before had he been grateful for the woman's mischievous ways, but he certainly was now. But Tristan was another matter. The threats clearly affected him. And judging by Decia's words, he wasn't fighting his duty with Germanius.

_Perhaps that is what he needs now._ Tristan needed to get back to life—he needed another assignment.

Suddenly an idea came to his mind. The bishop grinned as the pieces fell into place. There was a plan of action without violence—not that he abhorred that, but he would give this a chance first. Especially if it would alienate the scout from his comrades.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

He waited for darkness as usual, not because of the cover but because he didn't want light now. Tristan felt numb as he moved through the Roman streets, going to his next target's home. How he hated this.

But he couldn't bring himself to care enough. Or maybe he cared too much. Either way, he had a job to do. As he melded with the shadows and crept closer to the target's home, Tristan wondered where Arthur was now. Had his former commander moved on? Did he leave?

He hoped so. But if he knew for certain that Arthur left, Tristan could already feel bitterness about it. His mind waged war with his heart, hoping for . . . _help_—such a foreign thing for him to accept, but yet he wanted it. He hated this life.

Tristan climbed up a garden lattice. It creaked somewhat, but at this hour of night, it didn't matter. He reached a balcony of the home, and entered there. A sigh escaped his lips. His assignment was especially demanding this time—not on his skills but on his conscience.

_"Kill everyone in the household,"_ Germanius had said. Killing the man of the house, maybe a servant or two, was one thing, but _everyone_ . . .

Tristan drew his dagger, holding it tightly with the blade pointing down and behind him. He moved quietly through the home, his footsteps only padding slightly on the hard and bare floors. All the night torches and lanterns were extinguished, making it both easier and harder for Tristan.

The scout stepped cautiously into the hallway, and headed down to some bedchambers. He shut his eyes briefly before entering one. The door made no noise. Tristan's pace didn't falter. He moved evenly to the bedside, and held the knife ready to slice across—

Suddenly the target moved. He whipped out something to block Tristan's knife, and then kicked Tristan in the chest. The scout grunted, but dove for the man. He had to do this, and quickly before someone heard. They collided, with Tristan's force shoving the man onto the floor. There was a tangle of arms and sloppy hits as Tristan tried to finish the job.

The man fighting for his life yelled out ferociously as he hurled Tristan off. Tristan stumbled back, sliding across the ground to slam against the door.

_Run!_ This was too loud—any surprise was gone, and he couldn't succeed. In the darkness, Tristan saw the figure stand, and he took the moment to get to his feet as well. He yanked open the door and ran down the hall.

Feet pounded around him, behind him and below. Tristan scrambled around a corner and charged ahead. He knew there was a railing, separating the hall from the open ground floor. The outline of it came into view. He jumped and braced his hand on the railing, vaulting over it. A jolt of panic hit him as he realized he didn't know what he would land on.

It ended up being a table. Tristan bit his tongue as his feet plunged into the table, shattering it into splinters. He fell onto his back. The noise overall was deafening—not just to his ears, but to his mind, where he knew he'd utterly failed in stealth.

And failed in general. The bishop—how would he react to Tristan's failure? Who would pay for it? Tristan shook away the thoughts along with the splinters of wood.

He was on his feet again, running to the outside gardens when something sliced his arm just above his left elbow. It spun his body a bit, making him stumble. His fingers clawed at the injury, finding blood. Suddenly an arrow landed by his feet. Tristan shot a glare over his shoulder at the pursuing dark figures, who should have been dead by now if it weren't for his clumsiness.

"Hold there!" someone shouted ahead of him. Tristan whirled around to see a contingent of Roman soldiers. He tripped over his feet, and slid as he hit the ground.

"Don't move!"

"Halt!"

"Kill him!"

"Wait!"

The voices swirled over Tristan. His heart sped up faster and faster, hurting with each pound against his chest. Someone lit a few torches, and the light, even though it wasn't bright, made Tristan squint. The soldiers surrounded him, nudging him with their boots.

_Why are they here?_

And then he saw Arthur. Bors. Galahad. Gawain. Out of breath. Stunned.

Hurt.

And furious.

"We've been on alert about an assassin that escaped, sir," one of the soldiers said. "We heard the shouts."

Tristan's breath was short. His mouth felt dry. He started to shake his head, but the warning in his mind told him to do nothing. _Germanius._

_A trap._

_ A warning._

It was all too clear for Tristan.

"Tristan," Arthur started, shaking his head. The look on his face was confused. He seemed so lost. "Why . . ."

"No. . . ." That was Galahad.

A soldier held the tip of his sword to Tristan's throat. "On your feet."

Several pairs of hands seized him. They hauled him to his feet. Tristan hardly noticed. His eyes only saw the infinite sadness in the knights. The image burned itself into his memory. It remained with him.

Even as he was knocked unconscious and dragged from the house.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

"He wasn't himself," Arthur said aloud. It was the third time he'd said that.

"You're trying to convince yourself," Bors growled. "He almost killed Gawain!" Gawain tensed visibly, and that primal anger started to show again.

"No," Arthur said, "there has to be a reason. Tristan wouldn't . . . he wouldn't—"

"He pushed us away, Arthur," Galahad said hotly. "He told you to leave, and it's obvious to everyone now that he harbors some ill will to us! He tried to _kill_ Gawain, as he _slept_. The coward!"

Gawain spun on one heel and pushed Galahad.

"Shut up, Galahad!" he shouted. The other men grew more and more tense, and Galahad looked like he would retaliate, until Gawain turned away and began pacing. He chewed on his thumbnail, just thinking.

Gawain had never been one for too many words, like Tristan, although mainly that was because he drowned himself in ale. Nor was he the fiery one—there were plenty of hot tempers among the men. He usually didn't add to them. But he held everyone's attention now.

"Germanius claims he saved Tristan from execution," he started, "because he was an assassin. Right?"

Arthur nodded and stood.

"Which is why he says he has a hold over Tristan's life," Arthur said. "Though we know now that Tristan was protecting us."  
"Some protection," Galahad muttered. "Trying to kill us in our sleep."

Gawain shot him a look that instantly silenced the young knight. "He's still an assassin, Galahad."

The pieces fell together before them. Arthur nodded slowly. "And Germanius is controlling him."

Bors frowned.

"He sent Tristan to kill us?" the bald knight clarified. "Then why the soldiers?"

"A ploy to proclaim his innocence," Gawain guessed. "Tristan's probably back at Germanius's estate now."

"Does it bother no one else that Tristan obeyed?" Galahad pointed out suddenly, his tone hiding none of his bitterness. Gawain ceased pacing, and looked to Arthur. The young knight had them there.

"Who cares!" Bors said with a roar. "Germanius tried to have us killed. Are we going to do something about it!"

Slowly, the men nodded and looked to Arthur.

He drew a long breath. "We'll have to change our plans."

0-0-0-0-

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Decia stretched her curvy and limber frame like a cat, not caring that Asellio watched. The Roman man eyed her with no shame, but his looks were relaxed, indulgent but lazy.

"Arthur won't be fooled so easily," Asellio said, reaching for a goblet in the morning light. "He'll come after Germanius."

"And Germanius will die," she said, unconcerned. "He has become sloppy. He cannot control the scout."

Asellio suppressed a chuckle. "And you can?" he asked. She glared at the smirk on his face.

"More than you know." She reached for some grapes on a platter and plucked one off. "I've already set things in motion."

Asellio raised an eyebrow at that. It was a question in itself. Decia smiled.

"Germanius is stupid enough to think his ploy will cut any loyalty between Tristan and Arthur. If anything, he'll just make Tristan harder to control. Arthur will fight to get the scout back."

"The scout isn't worth all this," Asellio said. "Why not kill him, and Arthur?"

Decia's eyes flashed in anger. "No," she said quickly. "You cannot just kill someone like Arthur."

"The scout knows too much," Asellio said back. "If the senate knew what he does, we all are at stake."

Decia smirked at that. _She_ wasn't at stake nearly as much. She'd done nothing wrong, and she almost said as much. Instead, she just watched Asellio squirm.

"Fine," Asellio consented. "Tristan stays alive. And we'll wait to see how things play out between Arthur and Germanius."

Decia smiled and nodded once to the man.


	15. The Beginning of Revenge

**a/n:** Thank you very much for your patience and reviews. I took a lot longer on this chapter than I thought, and I hesitated if I should continue, but I'll end the chapter where you see it. Please review!

**The Beginning of Revenge**

His head hurt. Again. Waking up, Tristan squinted at the bright light flooding his eyes. A breeze swept over his face, and the sounds of birds let him know he was outside. He tried to see again. That's when he noticed he was surrounded.

Roman soldiers—Germanius's personal contingent, including Ortegius—formed a circle around him. Tristan sat up. Directly in front of him stood Germanius.

"You failed, Tristan." He certainly got right to the point. "Did you do so on purpose?"

The recent memory rushed through him. He clenched his jaw so hard he heard it crack.

"You sent me to kill them," he said. His voice was quiet, but not meek at all. As he spoke, his voice sounded louder and louder, matching the rising rage he felt. "I did everything you asked. You broke your word."

Ortegius took it upon himself to step in at that moment. He kicked Tristan in the face, catching his jaw and making the scout fall slightly to the side. The sudden pressure on his left arm made him cringe. The cut he sustained before was clotted, but blood stained his shirt.

Germanius laughed. It sounded so calculated and purposeful. Tristan glared, waiting for some explanation.

"I knew you wouldn't kill them, Tristan," the bishop said. "But they've seen you now—ready to kill them. I think they will leave." He circled once around Tristan. "And when they leave, they'll be safe. Really, Tristan. I have _saved_ them."

Tristan stretched his jaw tenderly. A coppery taste filled his mouth, one he recognized from so many battles. He spat the blood at the bishop's feet.

Ortegius didn't hesitate. He kicked Tristan in the arm, right over his cut.

"I'm a man of my word, Tristan," Germanius continued. "Stay and serve me, and your friends live. Let them leave unharmed for Britain."

Tristan ground his teeth together and covered the throbbing in his arm with his right hand. Germanius wanted an answer, a pledge of allegiance. How he wanted to kill the man, to run him through with the nearest sharp object. Ortegius too, for that matter. But the threats of the past came back to him. He didn't know who else might go after Arthur. Ortegius, certainly. Asellio too. Perhaps their guards, confidants.

"I will stay," Tristan said.

_And you will die when that changes_.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Gawain was ready to leap from the bushes and attack the bishop. The Sarmatian warrior stayed hidden, but it took all the will power within him to not act when the bishop and the soldier taunted and beat Tristan. Even if Tristan had tried to . . . well, even if he'd done some wrong, Gawain knew the man didn't deserve any such humiliation. Gawain couldn't hear what they were saying, but finally it seemed to end. Tristan got to his feet, slowly for the scout's usual quick and graceful manner. Blood shown on the man's left arm.

Tristan nodded to something Germanius said and then went up to the second level of the estate. Gawain watched from his hiding spot. His eyes followed until Tristan disappeared up the stairs. He reappeared along the exposed hallway overlooking some of the grounds, and then disappeared again.

Gawain stayed put. Tristan's room was somewhere beyond the hallway, somewhere . . . He at least had a general direction. The long-haired Sarmatian glanced around him. The heat of the day was not the stealthiest time to move about, but that didn't change his intentions. No guards were around him, so Gawain moved. He crept from the bushes and stayed low along the outer wall that surrounded the entire estate. There was a full and large tree further down. He reached it without incident and climbed up quickly.

It was odd for Gawain to act as scout. Being without Tristan impacted the knights more so than Lancelot, not because one was more valued than the other, but because no one else was a scout. Even Gawain's skills at the task were nominal, but he was learning. Hopefully he wouldn't have to anymore.

There were several rooms within the estate, at least four on the second level that Gawain could see. He saw movement from one, but couldn't tell who was inside. As if the person sensed being watched, he came to the balcony.

_Tristan._

Gawain wanted to wave or run and fight off any Roman to get Tristan out. But he couldn't.

_"Scout.__ Nothing more, nothing less,"_ Arthur had ordered. Gawain heeded that. As he stared one last time at the room's location, he jumped over the wall and to the rest of Rome, knowing that he would be back.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

He'd stopped thinking awhile ago. It just started to hurt too much. Tristan was so exhausted from thinking, from feeling, from everything including the injuries he bore. Over and over the thoughts swirled in his mind, until he shut everything off.

He rested on his bed, his eyes shut and his ears open. The sounds outside wafted to him as did the smell of the servants baking. Citizens bustling and shouting in the streets outside the estate annoyed him, but he isolated each noise systematically. It was a fine-tuning process, and it honed his senses.

It sharpened his skills.

After all that had happened and all that he'd deduced, he decided on what to do. He doubted himself and his plan for awhile, but that's when he stopped thinking. Too long he had been the analytical survivalist, scheming for an agenda like a native Roman. And while his objectives in preserving his friends and Britain were far more noble, he'd had enough.

Darkness fell. A servant brought him food, which Tristan heard but did not acknowledge. He lay on his bed as if sleeping, simply resting and restoring his energy. Outside his door, he could hear someone shifting about—probably Ortegius or another guard.

He waited a good half hour for the estate to settle into its nightly calm. The torches were being lit now, so it was indeed dark enough. The sound of the flames flickering in the warm breezes reached Tristan's ears.

He stood up and went to a cushioned bench. On it lay his leather vest and various armor. He suited up quickly but correctly, tightly pulling on the strings so that the armor fit him perfectly. It made him a bit more bulky, but he left off anything too heavy or metallic that would make noise. He would still be able to move quietly.

Silently.

Tristan tucked a small knife into the chest of his armor. He sheathed a dagger in his boot. Glancing at his reflection in the water basin, he noticed his hair was longer and getting in the way. Tristan brushed it aside, but it quickly fell back in his vision. He breathed out, and removed the small knife in his armor. Quickly, deftly, he sliced away bits of his hair. Longer strands he shortened, just so he could see. It wasn't uniform, but his hair had never been done for style. Putting the knife back in his armor, Tristan quickly braided his hair in a few places. It wouldn't bother him now.

Lastly, he turned to his sword. The curved blade gleamed at him, clean from the last kill he'd used it for. It almost felt foreign in his hands. He swallowed, eyeing it. The thoughts started to return.

He silenced them with a metallic zing when he sheathed the sword in the scabbard tied to his back.

Out on the balcony, Tristan used the stone railing and stood up on it. A gust of wind hit him right then, making him teeter back a bit. He clawed for the roof's edge and steadied himself. He glanced around for guards, but he knew their routine.

His arm protested when he pulled himself up onto the roof. He winced at the slight pain, but kept on. In the night of the Roman sky, he walked over the roof, keeping his body low just in case. He moved like an animal, stealthy, stalking through the dark with his eyes lit and fixed ahead.

Like a predator.

He made it unseen. The estate was patrolled by guards, as he expected. Tristan climbed the gates and fell to the other side. His feet hit the ground, ready to run. He jogged over the grounds. One guard was making his way towards Tristan, so the knight paused behind a tree.

Behind the guard's back, Tristan crept on. There was a lattice that climbed up to the personal chambers on the second level, and Tristan used that to ascend. From there, he had to guess which way to go, but his instincts told him he was going in the right direction. That, and the sound of light snoring down the hall.

The creaking of the bedroom door did not compete with the man's snoring. Tristan smirked. As far as he knew, he never snored. He could never sleep so heavily, nor so recklessly. Such racket would surely have meant his death when on a mission.

He didn't stir, and Tristan shut the door behind him. He reached for his sword, not removing it yet, but stepping closer to the sleeping man. When he was within reach, he unsheathed his sword, as loudly as possible.

The Roman man jolted awake. Tristan brought the blade to his throat, making the man freeze.

"Who's there?" the man asked, frightened.

"Stay quiet, and I won't carry out my orders," Tristan said. His voice made the man shudder—the scout relished that. Tristan eased up on the sword and bent over towards a lamp. He lit the wick. Immediately the man gasped.

"You!"

Tristan pressed the sword against the man's throat. As the lamp's light grew stronger, Tristan could see Asellio grow more and more uneasy. It brought a smile to his lips.

"Why are you here?" Asellio asked. His eyes narrowed as he recovered from his initial shock. Tristan didn't answer, quite on purpose. He just stared, his arm straight and firm in holding the sword to the conniving man's neck. Slowly, Asellio breathed out. "Germanius."

Tristan nodded slightly.

"That cowardly scum!" Asellio said, spitting at Tristan's feet. The scout raised an eyebrow.

"Quiet," he said simply. He removed the sword but held it loosely in his right hand. "If I wanted to obey Germanius, your throat would be slit."

Asellio swallowed.

"I can still choose to kill you," Tristan said. He kept his voice low and steady. Asellio barely leaned forward, trying to catch every word the scout said. "But Germanius is wrong to think your death will be accepted."

Asellio tipped his chin up, understanding Tristan's point.

"And you would be caught and executed," he filled in. Tristan huffed at that.

"If they caught me," he clarified. He started to pace. His steps were precisely even, and he twisted the sword by the hilt almost absent-mindedly. It was a casual habit, just spinning it around, but it made Asellio shift in his bed. "It's your problem. Germanius wants you dead."

Asellio's eyes suddenly widened as he realized a solution. "I will compensate you greatly if you kill him for me."

Tristan let his pace falter. It was momentary, and then he resumed his pacing. "I can't. He'll kill Arthur."

"No, he won't," Asellio said. He was more confident suddenly. He leaned forward from his place on his bed; his eyes were wide with excitement. "Only I know about Germanius's arrangement with you."

Tristan stopped. That was a lie—Decia knew as well, though maybe not so openly that Asellio realized it.

"He said others knew, and would destroy—"

"He lied, Tristan," Asellio interrupted. He was so eager now, that it made Tristan smile. He suppressed it and instead stared at the Roman, waiting. "No one else knows. No one else will threaten Arthur." He leaned back, as if his energy was so rapidly expended. "Kill Germanius, Tristan, and you will be free. You can return to your friends."

_Free._

He expected that. And he suspected that Germanius might have bluffed about how many people would go after Britain. Tristan's services had been bought by several in Roman society, but none extensively enough to know about him, or Germanius's exploits.

With the exception of Decia, but she didn't matter right now. Asellio waited anxiously for an answer. He swallowed quite noticeably. Tristan stepped towards him, the sword still at his side unthreatening.

"I have one question," Tristan said. Asellio nodded eagerly. His eyes were alight with hope, and slowly Tristan smirked right in front of the man. "Why should I not kill you?"

He raised his sword before Asellio could even blink. With one upward slash, he cut Asellio across the neck. The gracefulness of the precision movement left little blood splatter across the walls, although blood spilled freely from the man's throat. The Roman's hands flew to it, trying to hold his throat together, as if that would preserve his life.

Tristan let pretenses drop. He moved closer to the man, feeling the anger return inside of him. Ten, twenty, hundreds of words flooded his mind. They were replaced with images, scenarios wherein he decimated the man's body into oblivion. And suddenly, Tristan just stood up straight.

With Asellio watching with his last moments of life, Tristan calmly wiped the blade clean on the soft bed linens. He even licked a spot of the cloth and dabbed it over a stain on his blade. He resheathed the blade before staring hard into Asellio's eyes.

The Roman fought to keep his eyes open. Tristan often wondered why men fought at those last moments. By then, they should know they would die, inevitably. Why panic? Over the years of dealing death to current enemies, the scout figured it was a matter of security. When a man was ready to die, he held no fear of passing. He truly believed in whatever cause led him to his death. They simply closed their eyes, or calmly looked off into the coming of the next world, and drifted into it. Tristan admired those men.

But not this Roman. Not Asellio, nor his obvious panic now. Tristan watched, unmoved. He knew the man would act this way. But it was satisfying to watch it, especially Asellio.

When enough blood had drained away, Asellio's head slumped to the side. His eyes stared off, wide and unfocused. Tristan turned away from the corpse.

He wondered how Germanius would look as he died.


	16. The Fulfillment of Revenge

a/n: After the death threats to post, I figured I'd get the next chapter ready relatively quickly. But never worry, b/c I always finish my stories. Thanks for the wonderful reviews, and please keep them coming! Well, if I deserve it, anyway . . . .

**The Fulfillment of Revenge **

Decia stretched her limber and slight frame over Tristan's bed. She was surprised that he wasn't here. Germanius acted like he would be. But she didn't question anything, or ask about it. She just made herself comfortable, and waited.

Boredom plagued her. She wasn't a patient woman. She didn't like to wait, for anything.

And perhaps it wasn't the wisest thing to come to Tristan, especially when Arthur would most likely attack the bishop. But Decia's need to see him overrode wisdom. She needed to continue her words to him, to lightly persuade him. That, and she ached for more contact like the long kiss they shared before.

Something crashed below on the main floor of the estate. Decia stood. There was shouting below as well—loud, angry . . .

Violent.

She moved to the chamber door and pressed her ear against it.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

When the doors gave way and swung inward, they slammed loudly, announcing a presence immediately. There was no surprise, except for the timing and the knights' ability to reach the building

Arthur motioned to his knights, and they spread out. Germanius's personal contingent of guards emerged slowly—no doubt they were asleep. Arthur wiped his face of any emotion and readied his sword.

"You have a choice," he said loudly above the scrambling. The guards halted, but were still poised to give battle. Arthur went on. "I come for your master, for his crimes against a free man. Leave now, and leave unharmed."

The guards looked to each other. Arthur prayed that they would leave. He had no quarrel with them.

It didn't matter. They raised their swords and charged at Arthur and the knights.

Bors yelled out his ferocious and intimidating battle cry. The soldier before him quivered visibly but raised his sword. Bors, with his hand-held blades, punched at the man, slicing into him. The man fell.

A soldier charged Gawain, and he twisted quickly to ward off the blow. He turned back and impaled the man with a dagger. Another guard came at him. Gawain grabbed his head and twisted quickly.

Galahad was blocking an attack, and turning it into an advantage. He felled two guards and charged at a third.

Arthur barely stained his sword with the guards' blood when it seemed they'd won. _Not yet_, he thought. Germanius came down the stairs, his eyes wide at the horror of the sight. He froze where he stood. Arthur pointed his sword at him.

"Come here, Germanius," he said. His voice was as steel, and the bishop could hold back no fear.

But he did try to mask it. Straightening his posture, the man stared defiantly at Arthur.

"Your entire nation will suffer for this," he said. Frantic footsteps sounded behind Germanius, and another Roman soldier appeared. It was the soldier who had beaten Tristan before. Arthur's grip on his sword tightened.

"So be it," Arthur said. His voice boomed although he did not raise it. The power of his presence was enough to fill the room. "I will not leave my knight and friend."

Germanius chuckled.

"You would risk Britain? Its people? Your Woad bride? And all for an assassin."

At the mention of Guinevere, Arthur sucked in a breath. This scum would not threaten her. With two swift steps, he closed the distance to Germanius and held his sword to the man's throat.

"Where is Tristan?" Arthur glared deep into the bishop's eyes. "I would risk far less to kill you."

"But I won't, Arthur," came a voice. Germanius and Arthur both jerked and looked at the entrance of the house. Tristan stood there, dressed in his battle garb and looking quite relaxed despite the intensity of the situation. He nodded at Germanius. "I'll take care of him."

The knights stood dumbly. Part of Arthur wanted to shove Germanius away and embrace Tristan, but something held him back. He sensed it was the same for his knights. Doubt nagged them. Who was this knight, this comrade of theirs now?

Tristan stepped over the bodies of the guards with no care. He nodded at Gawain, Bors and Galahad, but didn't stop until he was near Germanius and Arthur. Even so, he stood apart.

"I sent word for you to leave," Tristan said. Arthur did not hesitate in his reply.

"I will not leave you to suffer here," he said animatedly. He pressed the sword closer to Germanius's skin. Tristan seemed unmoved. _How can he be so cold? This is his very life!_ Tristan put his finger to the tip of Arthur's sword and gently moved it away from Germanius's neck.

"Ah, see?" Germanius interrupted. "Your scout knows what will happen if you kill me, Arthur."

Tristan gave a quiet huff at that, drawing looks from all. He smirked, and Arthur marveled at that as well.

"Leave, Arthur. Return home tonight," he said, though looking at Germanius. "I will deal with this."

Germanius balked. "You cannot—"

"We won't leave you, Tristan," Arthur said. "Others will suspect you. It won't be safe."

"Nor for you if you stay," Tristan shot back. "Let them suspect me. It is better that way."

"They will come for Britain," Germanius spouted off. "I have seen to it—"

Tristan sighed, annoyed. He drew his blade from off his back and sliced into Germanius's arm. The bishop cried out sharply, and the Roman soldier behind him brandished his sword defensively.

"I killed Asellio," Tristan said. Arthur blinked. _What? Who is Asellio? _He couldn't help but feel ill at his knight's calm declaration.

Germanius looked shocked. He stuttered for a moment.

"There are others—"

Tristan grinned. "No." Germanius froze at that one word. He gulped, and Tristan turned to Arthur. "Leave, now. I will be just days behind you."

Arthur just stood there. How could he leave, now? _Already Tristan has done much to protect __Britain_ Not just Britain, but him and the knights. This was his chance to save him, to make sure he would come back from this hell, safely. He started to shake his head.

Tristan whirled from his enemies and turned to Arthur, the blade in his hand. He held his sword to Arthur's neck. The British king could not mask his alarm, and the knights all stepped forward. The sound of their weapons being readied was of small comfort to him, but then he saw the look in Tristan's eyes.

It wasn't hate. Nor Anger. Tristan stared at his former commander with impatience, and also desperation.

Arthur didn't understand. If Tristan would only let him help—

"Leave."

With that one command, Tristan turned back to Germanius and the soldier. He didn't look at Arthur or the other knights as they looked to each other for understanding or a collective decision. Arthur felt a part of his heart wrench.

"Come," he heard himself say to the knights. "We leave immediately."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The doors shut. It was quiet in the house, and even in the city. No one knew of the bloodshed in Germanius's estate. That worked fine for Tristan. He stepped away from Germanius and Ortegius. His sword he dropped to his side, but still in hand.

Germanius clutched his arm where Tristan had sliced it. He nodded at Ortegius with a snarl.

"You will pay dearly for this," he said. Tristan was unmoved. Ortegius stalked to the open area of the room, his sword up and ready. Tristan just stood there.

Waiting.

Oretgius attacked first, yelling angrily. Tristan deflected the attack and struck back. Orteguis blocked it, and the two men exchanged blows, matching them back and forth. Tristan was somewhat impressed that the Roman had improved on the sword.

Tristan dropped to the floor when Ortegius aimed for his head. The breath of the blade tickled his neck. He didn't much care for that. Tristan rolled to the side and held his sword up to block another blow. Ortegius swung his sword above his head and sent it heavily upon the Sarmatian. Tristan blocked it again, and his arm hurt from the impact.

He stumbled back, and hit against a chair. It surprised him enough that he made a critical mistake. He looked to see what space he had, taking his eyes away from Ortegius. The Roman seized his moment. He kicked Tristan across the jaw, making Tristan fall on his stomach, spread-eagle on the floor. His sword was barely in his hand, and completely gone when Ortegius stepped on his hand. Tristan looked up at him just as Ortegius raised the sword to pin him to the ground.

Tristan flipped onto his back and kicked Ortegius in the stomach. The Roman soldier stumbled back, but he was still armed. Tristan rolled over the floor to his sword, grabbing it just as Ortegius recovered. He attacked again, and Tristan had yet to get to his feet. It annoyed him that he'd been this sloppy.

He blocked a swing meant to behead him, but as the momentum of the sword carried it past his head, Tristan found his opening. He lunged at the Roman. Ortegius saw his mistake quickly, and managed only to be caught in the arm by Tristan's sword. He dropped his sword.

Tristan felt his heart rise. This was it.

Or so he thought. Ortegius roared and charged him. Tristan brought his sword up but the Roman just plowed into him before he could skewer the enemy. The men fell back, with Tristan losing his sword again. He hit something, a table or chair. It cracked loudly as the men's weight destroyed it.

Ortegius swung at Tristan and hit him in the face. _Hand-to-hand._ He'd forgotten how much Ortegius liked that—simply because he held the advantage. The Roman hit him again, and Tristan fell back over the furniture, his feet flipping up after him when he tried to roll it off. Tristan's back hit something, and the soreness from the hits so far was starting to get to him.

He shook it off and staggered to his feet. As he righted himself, Tristan braced his body for Ortegius's next attack. The soldier grabbed a vase, and hurled it at Tristan's head. Tristan ducked. It shattered loudly behind him. As he stood up straight again, Tristan removed his small knife from his outer vest. He twirled it with his fingers, getting the ideal grip on it before throwing it.

Ortegius roared when it dug into his shoulder. He charged at Tristan again, mad as an elephant and just as threatening. He swung wide at Tristan, but followed with a punch right under Tristan's jaw. Tristan's teeth jarred against each other, and he felt them go through his tongue as well. Blood filled his mouth. From his dazed view, Tristan saw Ortegius's next hit. It landed in his stomach, the force from which made blood leak from Tristan's mouth.

Tristan looked for his sword even as he clutched his stomach. He held up an arm to ward off another hit, but Ortegius varied it by kicking him in the side. Tristan scooted back. Behind the Roman, Germanius watched. He still clutched the cut Tristan gave him, but his face was beaming with sick pleasure. Tristan glared at the man, at Ortegius. He swallowed the blood in his mouth, and just bared his teeth at the men.

It must have had some effect, because Ortegius faltered momentarily. Tristan used the time to slide further away from him. He winced when his hands hit the shattered vase. Even so, he grasped a shard, ignoring as it cut into his skin.

Ortegius closed the distance between them slowly, almost taunting his position over Tristan. He leaned down and grabbed Tristan by the hair.

"I won," he said smugly, and then he drew back his right arm for another hit. Tristan seized the opportunity. He brought the shard of the broken vase from behind his back and slashed it through the air, right in front of Ortegius. The Roman's eyes widened. He just froze, and for a moment, Tristan wondered if he inflicted any damage at all.

Then the blood flowed from the Roman's neck. It dribbled at first, and then poured. Ortegius didn't reach for the wound or try and stem the flow. He just stared at Tristan.

And fell over, death imposing quickly.

Tristan eyed the body, making sure he was gone. He shifted his gaze quickly to Germanius. The bishop flinched.

He started up the stairs, going backwards and keeping his eyes on Tristan. Tristan pushed himself off the floor. The blood in his mouth was still coming, but he spit it out this time. Impassively, he wiped away a speck from his lips. Never did his eyes leave Germanius.

As soon as the bishop disappeared from view, Tristan moved. He didn't run or hurry visibly. He retrieved his small knife from Ortegius's shoulder, and then calmly walked to his sword. He listened carefully as he ascended to the personal chambers of the estate. He knew where Germanius's were, but the bishop would not trap himself there.

Tristan headed for the man's study. As he neared it, it dawned on him that this might be the last time he set foot here. It brought a smile to his lips.

He turned and went into the study.

Tristan stopped immediately.

In the middle of the room stood Germanius, with a sharp letter-knife at the beautiful neck of Decia Quintas.


	17. Unexpected

a/n: Okay, I received some very thoughtful reviews/comments, and I certainly appreciate that! I have to say just one thing about writing. Sometimes I have to make sacrifices in what I write—some plot lines don't always work perfectly, and they are things that I think about and wince as I read and edit. Being that this is a pleasure/hobby for me, and not my bread & butter, I don't always have time to come up with something better. I also don't always know how to write one thing in at the expense of another part I've worked hard to develop over the entire story. With that said, I apologize for some things not being to everyone's liking. Thanks for the feedback. Please read, review, and most importantly, enjoy!

**Unexpected**

Decia gasped beneath Germanius's hold. Her neck was arched up, almost unnaturally with the great strain. The small knife poked into her skin, but the bishop waited. His eyes were fiery. His lips snarled with an unspoken threat.

"Release her," Tristan growled. Only cowards used an innocent as a shield. It just strengthened what Tristan always knew about the man—he held no honor. Tristan twirled his sword once and brought it in a ready stance.

Germanius stepped back, making Decia shriek as the knife's point pressured her further. Tristan narrowed his eyes. The bishop would not fight. He _could _not. Always he'd relied on soldiers he commanded, or men he could buy. _Like you_. He'd been bought—not with money, not even fear for his life. Tristan had to remind himself his price had been worth it. Even so, he felt sick that it'd taken this long for him to take matters in his own hands.

"I'll slit her throat, Tristan," Germanius said. His accent sounded even worse with such foreign words. Part of Tristan was surprised the man found the sharp end of that letter-knife.

Decia's eyes were terrified. Instead of the intriguing deep color of her calculating eyes, they were wide and light, and the pupils so small that she looked like an entirely different person. She stared at Tristan while she drew quick, sharp breaths. He could almost hear her pleading in his mind. He remembered the kiss on the balcony, the feel of her pressed against him.

Just as quickly as the thought assailed him, Tristan blinked it away. He softened his features, abandoning any feeling or care. His face was like stone, and he just stared at Germanius and Decia, unmoving.

"Then do it."

Nothing.

Germanius's jaw dropped. He quickly shut it, but his hand quivered. Decia whimpered, but Tristan didn't take his eyes off Germanius.

"You've never killed someone yourself," Tristan observed. He smirked at the bishop. Germanius glared at him, recovering somewhat.

"I'm not like you," he spat out. Tristan cocked an eyebrow.

"You're right," he said. He waved his curved sword, swishing it once in the air. He stomped forward, just a step but with it Tristan cut up with the blade. The tip of it sliced Germanius's robe, right by Decia's arm. She and Germanius flinched, but the bishop didn't move beyond that. Tristan held his sword steadily at the man's chest.

The two men stared at each other. Neither moved, but Tristan's easy smirk was working its magic. The small knife in Germanius's hand started to waver, until he slowly brought it down from Decia's neck.

Tristan did not relax his stance. He continued to stare at the bishop. It was unwavering.

Unnerving.

Germanius completely dropped the knife. Tristan glanced to Decia and nodded at her. Germanius released her.

"Tristan," she said, breathless. He felt her hands on his back. She hid behind him, and her hair tickled at his neck when she pressed against him. He shrugged her off and took a step forward again. Germanius gave a cry as the sword's tip pressed into him.

"I let her go," Germanius said, shaking his head.

Tristan just raised an eyebrow.

"You will spare my life," he said, more hoping than convincing. Tristan smirked. A braid fell into his view—he tossed his head to move it aside.

"I never said that," Tristan said. The bishop paled.

"Tristan," Decia whispered in his ear. Her tone was soft, but warning. He didn't care for that.

"Why did you kill all those men?" Tristan asked suddenly. He circled around Germanius as he waited for an answer. He heard Germanius swallow.

"You killed them."

Tristan didn't like that. He let his sword drop on the back of the bishop's legs. Germanius screamed.

Decia jerked back. Tristan noticed it, and for a moment he forgot himself and just watched her. Her mouth was agape, and she held her hand to her chest, bracing herself. She breathed heavily, and when her eyes met Tristan's, she looked away again.

He didn't dwell on that for now.

He cocked his head to the side as he watched Germanius. The man was on his knees, awkwardly nursing his wounds.

_Kill him._ Should he do it swiftly? Make it last, long and tortuous? Germanius certainly deserved no better. _Kill him_.

The sword felt heavy within his grip. He knew what he wanted to do. But something in the back of his mind was making him hesitate. _Why? Even Arthur wanted to kill him._ Justice certainly demanded it—not just for him, but for all the people he'd killed for Germanius.

_Maybe I should die._

Like that hadn't crossed his mind before.

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the bishop, who was staring, baffled at the scout's hesitation. With one, fluid stroke, Tristan swung the blade over the man's shoulders. Germanius's head was severed from the neck. A spray of blood flew on Decia, and she shrieked and shrank back.

The bishop's body sank to the floor.

And Tristan felt calm, for some reason. It was a simple death—more than what Germanius warranted. Tristan wiped the blade on the lavish robes, and resheathed his sword.

When he looked up from the body, Tristan almost choked. Arthur stood in the doorway.

-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-

Each step Arthur had taken from Germanius's estate thundered in his ears. He could almost hear _doom, doom_ as the distance grew.

Galahad hadn't stopped complaining since they left. Bors chimed in too, and for once Gawain was quiet. Arthur stopped walking.

"Wait here," he said with no room to argue. "I'll return shortly." Perhaps it had been his tone, or maybe the speed with which he retracted his way back to Germanius's, but the knights had obeyed.

_About_ _time_, he thought.

Now, standing in the study with Germanius's body on the floor, Arthur wondered if he should have returned, or just left Tristan as the scout desired. Part of him did not want to know what Tristan would do. Some things were left better unknown.

_Too late_. Arthur swallowed. His skin crawled when he saw the blood flowing from Germanius's neck. His eyes started to look for the head, but he stopped himself.

Tristan stared at him, his eyes intense and cautious. Arthur could see the tension in his whole frame. His sword was still firm in his grip, but Arthur hoped it wasn't for him. _Of course it's not_, he thought. _This is Tristan!_

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked, finding his voice.

"I told you to leave," the scout said back. He wiped a drop of blood from his face. It smeared, and gave Tristan a primal look that made the lady in the room, Decia, shrink back.

"We couldn't," Arthur said. "Not without you. Tristan—" Tristan turned away from him and stepped over the body, moving to the balcony.

"Tristan, wait!" Decia called out.

"Tristan!" The scout stopped when Arthur called him, but he didn't turn back to face him. Arthur drew a deep breath. "We cannot lose another knight. Dagonet, and then Lancelot . . . we mourned your death with theirs, but it never felt . . ." He sighed and shut his eyes, willing for the right words. "Don't make us mourn you anymore."

Tristan turned around. He swallowed and stared at the floor.

"You should go," he said, his voice rough and low. "When the Romans find the bodies, they'll suspect you."

"They'll suspect us more if we leave in the middle of the night," Arthur countered. It was true—he and the knights were guests here. How would it seem if he left so suddenly? "Come with us. You'll be safe."

Decia huffed, putting in her opinion.

"No," she said. "Too many people know Tristan guarded Germanius. He has to stay hidden."

"So we'll hide you," Arthur said, nodding to Tristan. The scout looked like he might interject, but Decia quickly spoke further.

"He'd be safer with me," she said. "He can hide in my home."

Arthur started to object, but then he thought about it. She _was_ right. Too many people wanted to speak with the king of the Britons, and Tristan would easily be noticed. Not to mention that so far Tristan didn't seem thrilled about returning . . . _Why?_

He looked between Tristan and Decia, considering his options.

"Tristan," he started, "you'll stay with the lady until it's safe." He flashed a tight smile. He wanted to say more, but Decia's presence choked that opportunity. From outside, voices started to rise. Tristan hadn't said a word, but after hearing the noise outside, he simply nodded.

He crossed the room and snagged Decia by the arm. He was out the door before Arthur could say anything else.

Arthur stared after him.

"What's happened to you?" he asked for no one to hear. The heaviness of his heart had not eased since learning Tristan was alive, and even now with Tristan free, Arthur still felt guilt-laden. He would give anything to have things differently. Just a little while longer, and he could return to Britain, with four knights instead of the three he brought here.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The Roman streets weren't so quiet anymore. Hushed whispers and commands echoed off the clay and stone. Tristan's revenge was being discovered.

He watched from the shadows of a building, with Decia pressing against him. He tried to ignore that. In the flickering torchlight, he watched as Arthur led the knights back to the safety of their luxurious guest house. He thought about what Arthur had said, something he'd suspected after first seeing the knights in Rome.

Lancelot was dead.

_Another loss, but another man free_. Tristan clenched his fist, and stared ahead at the figures searching the darkness.

"Tristan," Decia whispered urgently. She tugged on his thick tunic. "Tristan!" He turned and glared at her. It didn't bother her. "We have to leave."

He turned his attention back to the sounds of the street. Somewhere nearby, a soldier shouted to another. Dawn was coming, so perhaps they didn't care about discretion anymore.

He felt another tug on his sleeve. This time he let Decia lead him away. It had been a long night anyway, and he was too weary to think or feel.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The scout slept. His hair fell across his face, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. He hadn't bothered to shed the layers of armor or weaponry, but it was just as well. He looked so divine, even battle-weary and dirty.

Something plagued him as he slept. It was the way he shifted ever so slightly, and gave almost an inaudible moan. Decia smiled. She swept that hair back from his closed eyes. He stirred a bit, but didn't wake.

She hadn't expected things to go . . . as they had. Just as well that Germanius was dead—she'd wanted that. But Asellio had been a surprise. It wasn't a bad thing; in fact it probably gave her more leeway. Yet the murdered Roman leader had his purposes, including a certain amount of control over Tristan.

_No wonder he killed him_.

Decia sighed in the morning air. Outside her estate she heard clusters of soldiers marching through the city. Her servants were in the markets, listening for any news. So far, she knew more than the rest of the city.

_What now?_ It was just a matter of getting Tristan to stay—making him stay. She would not resort to the methods Germanius or Asellio had. Look where that had gotten them. No, she had a better idea. Her beauty would help, and her closeness with Tristan as well.

Decia leaned over his sleeping form and laid a gentle kiss on his lips. His mouth twitched, making his beard tickle her skin. She smiled.

The lady stood and left him to sleep. She failed to see the scout's eyes open, watching her shut the door of her chambers behind her.


	18. Penitent

**a/n**: So sorry for the delay! I had something else that I needed to write and it took me a bit to get back into Tristan-mindset. But I will keep writing and finish this story—never worry about that. Please read and review and enjoy!

**Penitent**

Daylight was a tricky thing for a scout. Sure, it was good since you could see better. But it also meant you could be seen better by others. However, in the midst of Rome, Tristan discovered a way around that.

Decia's servants included several men, and after searching through their rooms, Tristan found a robe suitable enough. He threw it over his clothes, minus his own armor. It made him too bulky. He left his sword and only had his dagger. If he needed any protection, Tristan wanted it to be a challenge.

He weaved through the streets. The sun cooked the street and waves of heat radiated through his robe. It wasn't particularly pleasant. Tristan mentally dismissed the discomfort, though, and focused on his goal.

Germanius's estate lie behind him, and he was quite glad to leave it. He carried a heavy sack with him now. It was an awkward burden, especially since he tried to carry it unnoticed. _It's just bread_, he thought, trying to trick himself.

He ducked down a familiar alley. The home ahead wasn't lavish; in fact, it looked worse than last time he'd come. The idea tugged a smidge of guilt from Tristan, but that only toughened his resolve.

He dropped the sack, and it thudded and clanked when it hit the doorstep. Tristan pulled his hood further over his head, and he dipped his head lower so no one would see who he was. With a slow breath, he knocked on the door.

It took a few moments for running footsteps to make it to the entry. When the door opened, Tristan was met with the wide-eyes of a small, dark-haired girl. She blinked at him.

"Where's your mother?" Tristan said. His voice grated coarsely, but it didn't scare the girl. She just kept staring at him, curious.

"Elaina?" came a sweet voice from inside. A petite woman with golden brown hair appeared. Her dress was little more than a sloppy, long tunic, and the holes in it told Tristan much. She draped a protective arm around the girl, and tilted her head to the side as if to ask what the strange hooded figure wanted.

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He realized they probably couldn't see a single feature of his face, and his perceived silence just made them uncomfortable. The mother started to step back, pulling her daughter with her.

He wasn't sure what to say. What do you say to someone whose life you've ruined?

Tristan kicked the bag towards them. It barely budged. He nodded at it.

"Take it," he said. The woman glanced at it briefly before staring at him again, almost untrusting. "It doesn't make up for your loss, but . . ." He shook his head and turned away.

"Wait!" the woman called out. Tristan glanced back. The hood swayed into his line of sight, but he saw the woman stare at the golden contents of the bag. She started to say something, but then a sob choked her. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

She tried once more.

"Come inside." She stepped aside and held the door open for him. The little girl smiled now, even as her mother's lip quivered. _Too much emotion_. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

He doubted she understood to what extent he was sorry. The invitation of hospitality was nothing to him, but the murder of this woman's husband was another thing. He couldn't face her much longer. Even now, the memory of that night came to him . . . .

_The family of the man slept in the next room. The wife, unaware of the danger lurking…_

_ Someone entered the home._

_Shadows moved in the flickering candlelight. Footsteps . . . closer . . . closer._

_ Tristan's left hand shot out and around the man's head, clapping over his mouth. He pulled the man towards him, and with his right hand, plunged the dagger into the man's chest._

_ The blade sunk into the heart. Tristan could feel the last beats vibrate through the blade and into his hand. _

He shuddered as he walked away. He hoped Germanius's riches might help her. Deep down, he knew it would only make so much of a difference; nothing could bring back her husband. But it was the only thing Tristan could think of.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

"Arthur, how much longer do we have to stay?" Galahad whined. He was slouched in a chair, his elbow propping up his head. Gawain lazily draped himself over a lounger. The pair of them looked like the epitome of boredom.

Bors, on the other hand, was taking advantage of luxury. He daintily placed grapes in his mouth. Each time he released one into his mouth, he closed his eyes as if it was heaven itself.

Arthur tried to ignore that.

"If we leave too quickly, the senate might take offence. We can't risk that," the king said wearily. It wasn't the first time he'd explained that.

"I'd love to offend them," Gawain said. "They weren't terribly offended when they learned Germanius was dead."

"Yes, well, they're still looking for the murderer," Arthur said.

Gawain shrugged.

"Why must we worry if they're offended?" Galahad asked. "I'm pretty—"

"Ah!" Bors exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "He admits it! He's pretty!" The bald knight chuckled at his humor. The other knights balked. There was silence as they looked to each other and pondered if the grapes might be fermented.

Gawain cleared his throat.

"I think Galahad means that he's tired of fearing offense. Rome should worry about offending us," he said. "After all, no one cares that a bishop of Rome took Tristan from a freedom he more than earned."

Arthur sighed.

"We'll leave in five days," he said. "A few more social events, meetings with the senate, and then we can go."

Bors suddenly sat up. The grapes' effect must have cleared. "And Tristan?"

Arthur slowly grinned. "We will take him home."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

"Where have you been?"

Decia sat in her garden, her hands folded in her lap and her back straight as can be. Her neck arched, it seemed, revealing her smooth skin. She hadn't looked at him yet, which Tristan thought was odd, but he didn't care.

"Nowhere of importance," he said. Decia didn't need to know where he'd been. It was his business, his penance—frankly, he didn't want to reveal any such thing to her. It was instinct.

"It's not safe for you to be out there," Decia said. "They haven't arrested anyone for Germanius's death, but if they see you, it will raise questions."

Tristan shrugged. He pulled off the robe he'd worn throughout the city and tossed it at Decia's feet. Decia gave it a nominal glance before running her eyes up his body. He could almost feel her gaze like fingertips tickling over him.

"Enough," she said, turning away to a bowl of fruit. She plucked a strawberry from the bowl and turned back to him. Her eyes watched him as she bit into the berry. "Are you eager to return to Britain?"

He was attentive enough to be surprised by her change in conversation. Even so, Tristan felt a strange and eerie twinge as she chewed on the fruit. He shrugged for his answer.

"So no," she said. She smiled. "I thought so. Why return then?"

"I didn't say I don't want to go." He noticed that she straightened her posture when he spoke. But he didn't say anymore.

Decia waited. Tristan purposely didn't say anything else. He walked past her and to the quarters she'd given him.

The room was nice. It was very sterile though, too formal, more because he was a guest, not a slave or forced guard. He didn't care for it much. He missed the simple rooms at the Wall, with his things strewn about where he wanted them, his weapons tucked in hidden places…

He didn't bother holding back a sigh as he shed his shirt. It was hot still, and wearing that ridiculous robe all over Rome didn't help. The idea of a bath crossed his mind.

"I really prefer that you treat me with the respect I deserve," he heard behind him. He turned quickly to see Decia. Her eyes immediately went to his bare chest, but he gave her a stone face.

_Respect._ There was something about her that he didn't think deserved respect. Maybe it was because when he first came to Rome, she was just as eager to use his loyalties to get what she wanted from him. She'd threatened it at least. _Although she's helped you since then._

He tilted his head to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"Do you think they will accept you?" Decia asked. "Arthur and his knights, I mean."

He blinked but didn't move. Decia stepped to the side and began to circle him. Suddenly Tristan felt a bit chilly.

"I worry for you, Tristan," she said. "For all of Arthur's good, I fear he cannot overcome his strong morality. Do you think he would accept what you've done?"

It was something he had successfully pushed out of his mind for two hours now, and the lady ruined it. Tristan's eyes found the marble floor. He didn't want to go over this again. Doubt was a nasty plague, and it just heightened his sense of guilt. _Remember that family. They're at least better off now_. It was a feeble attempt to assuage himself.

Her fingertips skimmed over his shoulder blades. She traced his scar, the brand Germanius had given him. His body tensed. Decia moved around to face him, with her fingers still on his skin. Her hand rest on his collarbone. He glanced down at it, then back at Decia.

"I don't know," Tristan said quietly. He looked away quickly. Something about her eyes, always trying to figure him out, bothered him. She swept at his hair that fell in front of his face.

"You are always welcome here," she said. Tristan found himself looking back to her. "I know you are a good man, no matter what you've done for Germanius. I'll always accept you for who you are, Tristan."

Her hand crept from his chest to his cheek. Her skin was so soft, like a rose petal on a cool morning. He leaned into it.

And then he pulled away. She almost gasped, but Tristan didn't stop. He picked up his tunic and threw it over himself.

"Thank you," he said. It was as sterile as he could make it. Despite that, Decia smiled at him and left him.

Again, Tristan sighed. Decia drained him sometimes. He didn't like showing any emotion—he never had—but she constantly seemed to want him to reveal something. It reminded him of Arthur a bit, but not nearly as . . . sneaky.

Tristan removed his tunic again, more comfortable now that the lady was gone. He sat on a lounger, and leaned back, waiting for some form of rest to claim him.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Gawain was quite happy to leave Rome. Of course, that wouldn't happen until tomorrow, but at least it was close enough to taste. It was late afternoon, and just mere hours until they departed.

He was also glad to leave Bors, Galahad and Arthur for a time. This particular errand from Arthur provided a much-needed escape. Bors especially was becoming unbearable. He was acting more drunk and spontaneously joyous each hour. Vanora would think he'd lost all sense, and he had little to begin with.

A servant showed Gawain into a receiving room at the lady Decia Quintas' estate. He wandered around the room, eyeing odd statues and tapestries. One statue seemed to honor a naked man, who was surrounded by more naked men.

_Romans._

"Ah, one of Arthur's knights."

Gawain turned from the statue. Decia strode in smoothly, her pearl gown flowing behind her as if she arrived via cloud and a gentle wind. Her dark brown hair was placed atop her head, with ringlets of curls framing her flawless face. Her eyes sparkled at him, and Gawain almost envied Tristan.

"Lady Quintas," Gawain greeted, bowing slightly. That was the custom, wasn't it? He couldn't remember all of a sudden. "I've come for my friend, Tristan."

Instantly he berated himself. _What other friend of yours would be staying with her!_ He cringed, and the lady seemed to notice. She raised an eyebrow at him, scrutinizing his peculiarities.

"The scout," she said, affirming it for some reason. She moved across the room, closer to him. Her eyes never left him, and Gawain was both unnerved and exhilarated by it. Gawain nodded, waiting for her to call for Tristan.

"I've not seen him for three days," she said. Gawain's stomach hardened painfully. "He left one morning, without telling me where or why. I thought he'd gone to Arthur."

Gawain stepped back. His blood was suddenly pounding in his ears. He tried to think clearly.

"He left?"

_Why would Tristan leave? Where would he go?_

_ What if someone saw him?_

"Although," Decia Quintas continued, "he did seem quite excited about Britain. Perhaps he journeys there already."

Gawain frowned. "Excited?"

Decia waved a light hand in the air. "Well, as much as he has ever shown. The man is a complete wall. I've never met someone so expressionless." She cleared her throat. "But he's kept his belongings packed since he came here, almost like he was ready to leave at a moment's notice."

It didn't make sense. Well, it did, but it bothered Gawain. Why couldn't Tristan just stay put and do what he was told? Scouting was always easy—he always did was he was told, found what he needed, and kept out of trouble. But with his personal life or anything beyond the realm of missions and scouting, Tristan did just as he pleased.

Gawain groaned. Arthur wouldn't be happy that Tristan left alone, unprotected. Arthur didn't trust anyone. Neither did Gawain, for that matter, not after what Germanius did. The long-haired knight sighed.

"You say he left three days ago?" he asked. The lady nodded.

"His things are gone," she said. "I thought he might return, but obviously not."

Gawain gave a slight bow to her. "Thank you, for housing him. I must go." He was half-way out the door when he heard her bid him farewell.

"I hope you journey safely."

Gawain hoped he found Tristan had journeyed safely.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Tristan had been sleeping a lot lately. He knew it, and he knew it was sloppy. It would only dull his senses and abilities. But given a purpose and danger, he was certain he could still perform as a scout.

The sun was setting when he awoke this time. The afternoon rays bathed him, and his body was slick with sweat. How he hated this climate.

Tristan stood and went to the balcony. He didn't bother with his shirt. He needed the air to dry him first anyhow.

As he stood on the balcony, he heard voices drift up to his ears. One was Decia—hers was honey-sweet but shrill at times, and it was as easy to pinpoint as a bird's call. The other was familiar too, but definitely not shrill. It was mumbled, lackadaisical, and low.

Tristan walked silently across the marble floor. It helped that he was barefoot. He left his room and snuck down the hall, keeping his body in the shadows. The voices grew louder as he approached.

"You say he left three days ago?"

_Gawain._ How did it even take him that long to identify the speaker? Tristan rolled his eyes. _No more naps_, he told himself.

"His things are gone. I thought he might return, but obviously not."

_Who's gone?_

_ You, you dimwit._ It was clear they were speaking of him. Who else would Gawain be concerned about? _But I'm here…_

"Thank you, for housing him. I must go." Tristan heard Gawain leaving. He stepped forward to stop him, but then Tristan stopped himself. He wasn't ready to see his friend, if that was what they were. And he was a bit confused.

"I hope you journey safely."

_Decia_

_ Why would she_—

Tristan stood straight. A cool wind made its way through the hall, chilling him to the bone.

_Decia_

He hadn't expected this.


	19. Cutting Ties

**a/n**: Hey, I updated, and pretty quickly too! I caught my second wind. Anyway, please review—I'd love to receive some feedback. Thanks!

**Cutting Ties**

The knights' pace was rapid to get to the seaport. Arthur pushed the ship to leave as soon as possible. He couldn't hide his joy.

They were going home, and Tristan was most likely on his way. From what Gawain reported, the scout would beat them by a few days.

There was a bit of nagging doubt in his mind. Tristan left, yes, but Decia Quintas didn't even know where. It didn't matter; they would go home, and the sadness Arthur felt would be relieved. Perhaps Tristan would feel more comfortable as well. Arthur hoped so—Tristan deserved it, especially after the hell he'd been in for the last several months.

The ship dipped forward and gently lulled backwards. Arthur gripped the rail of the ship to steady himself.

Just a few weeks, and he'd be home.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Tristan had been unusually quiet as of late. Decia waited all evening for him to appear for dinner. When it became apparent that he wasn't coming down, she sent a servant with a platter to him. Now, the platter sat outside Tristan's door, with the food dried and untouched.

At first, she thought he might be down in spirits—well, she'd never seen him ecstatic—and so she let him be. But it was noon the next day, and he was still not eating. What she had to tell him wouldn't help, but that didn't matter too much to her. Arthur and his knights left that morning. She planned to make sure Tristan knew that.

She couldn't wait any longer. She knocked on his door.

"Tristan?"

Decia stood still, her head inclined at the door. No sound came to her. She knocked again. _Is he asleep?_ The thought brought a smile to her lips. She loved how innocent and peaceful he looked as he slept.

One of her servants came down the hallway, bowing to her. She stopped him.

"Have you seen the scout?" she asked. The servant shook his head. Decia eyed the door and tried to open it. It was locked. She motioned to her servant. "Open it."

The servant looked uneasy, but he tried the handle.

"It is locked, my lady."

Decia rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I know that," she snapped. "Go get the key." The servant bowed and quickly ran away for the key. When he returned, she snatched the key from him.

As soon as she opened the door, she felt a twinge at the back of her neck. Goose bumps covered her skin. She stepped cautiously into the room.

"Tristan?" she called out. His bed was unmade, but vacant. She moved around the room, checking every nook or obscured corner.

"He's not here," her astute servant announced. But he was right.

More than that, Decia realized none of Tristan's things were in the room either. His sword, his armor, a few changes of clothing—all of it, gone.

The room seemed to spin as the brunt of it hit Decia. Tristan left.

_With Arthur?__ On his own?_

_ Why would he leave without telling me?_

She felt hurt for a moment before anger took over.

_Ungrateful scout! _After all she'd done to help him, and after being so close—he just left!

She uttered the scream of a woman scorned. Decia stormed from the room, her servant following behind.

"Go to the port. Find out if the scout left with Arthur this morning," she ordered. "And send the guards in at once. I must speak with them."

The guards came leisurely at first, but seeing Decia so beside herself, they quickly claimed that they never saw Tristan leave. She was sick of their excuses, although in the back of her mind, she knew Tristan was skilled enough to get by any guard.

"I want your men ready to leave within the hour," she commanded to the captain of her personal guard. "We'll travel northwest, beyond Rome. And quickly."

"We?" the captain repeated. "Are you coming, Lady Quintas?"

She nodded, but her eyes were on her servant, who ran through the gardens to her side.

"My lady," the man started breathlessly. "The British King left this morning, with three knights."

"Just three?" she asked. The servant nodded. Decia turned back to the captain of her guard. "Prepare immediately."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Night time. It was alarmingly cool. For some reason, the nighttime air in an area of desolation left no warmth. Tristan added his outer coat over his clothes, the most he'd worn for some time. He certainly didn't need so many layers in Rome.

The horse he'd stolen was holding up well, and was all too eager to graze on the sparse weeds. Tristan tied the horse loosely, and turned his attention to settling in for the night.

It felt remarkable to be out here. Nothing surrounded him—no walls, no tall buildings, not even street noise. He heard small insects and the wind sifting over the bare landscape.

Tristan grinned.

He didn't light a fire, despite the cold air. He wasn't too far from Rome, and didn't want attention. But he slept quite comfortably on the ground. He had missed the natural feel of the earth beneath you. Feathers and cushioned beds were a luxury, and there was a part of Tristan that simply preferred a harder life. He slept dreamlessly.

And awoke suddenly.

Someone was nearby. Tristan sat up and grabbed his sword. He stilled and listened. Horse hooves. Several, actually; that signaled at least three or more travelers.

He guessed he had about a minute before the travelers came upon him. He snagged his sparse belongings from the ground and tossed them in a dip in the earth. Tristan hid behind a boulder. His presence wasn't invisible, but hopefully the travelers were honorable, and would move on.

They appeared, outlines in the dark. One, two, three . . . six total. Five larger figures and one smaller. _Woman._ They all slowed as they neared, as if they knew exactly where he was. Tristan tightened the grip on his sword.

"Find him."

His brow crinkled, confused. He knew that voice, but he didn't think _she_ would pursue him out here. He stood up straight and stared at the party. They hadn't yet seen him.

"No need," he said aloud. The six figures all jumped and turned to him. "What do you want, Decia?"

She dismounted. Tristan was actually surprised that she could ride a horse. She strode to him, her pace even but the moonlight showed a glint in her eyes. Decia didn't look like she would stop, but she did just inches from him. And then she brought her hand back and slapped him.

The sound of it echoed across the dry land. The force of it made Tristan's hair slip and fall into his sight. He waited for an explanation, slowly bringing his eyes to hers.

"How could you just leave!" she started. "I kept you hidden! I helped you escape, and helped you when Germanius would have tortured you!" She leaned closer and closer to him, her anger growing with each inch. "I gave your messages to Arthur. I've always looked out for you, even when I knew nothing of you. We talked, Tristan, we became close, did we not! And this is how you repay me? Slinking off without any appreciation or even a goodbye?"

She drew a large breath, enough that Tristan felt he could get a sentence in.

"Are you finished yet?"

Her eyes widened. "Agghhh!" She lifted her arm again to strike him, but Tristan caught the hand and shoved the frustrated woman away. She stumbled repeatedly until she just fell on her backside. Tristan didn't spare her any sympathy, although his eye was drawn to the five guards with her. They drew their swords but stayed put.

"You only did what would help you," Tristan said. His voice was quiet, but Decia listened raptly to every word. "You told Arthur what you wanted. You lied to Gawain. I heard you."

Again, her eyes widened. She stuttered, but Tristan cut her off.

"Don't deny it, Decia," he said. "I owe you nothing." He turned away.

"Seize him," he heard Decia mutter behind his back. The guards moved for him, and Tristan heard the tell-tale sound of armor, metal and a skirmish. He almost grinned again.

He waited, his back turned, simply listening. Closer, but less confidently, the guards approached. They knew he was well aware of their proximity.

_There_. A scuff in the dirt. A sharp intake of breath. It started.

Tristan twisted from his spot and raised his sword. With one step forward, he brought his blade down on the first guard. The scout was onto the second guard before the first hit the ground. The second tried to attack, but it just didn't work. Tristan slashed the man across the chest and stepped ahead for the third guard.

The third, fourth and fifth guards were very aware of their plight. Their fallen comrades were lesson enough. So they huddled together, but with their swords up as if they would attack. Tristan did not wait for it. He took a long, fluid step and slashed up and across. He felt the sword slice the fourth and fifth guards. The third was yet unscathed. Tristan stared into his eyes, and saw fear. Justly so, he had to admit. He had a feeling his own eyes showed indifference. Tristan thrust the blade into the man's chest.

Someone was gasping for breath behind him. Tristan fully expected it to be one of the guards' last breaths, but it was Decia. She shakily got to her feet.

"You killed them," she hissed. For a moment, Tristan thought she might be angry for the loss of life. "What will it take to tame you, scout?"

Tristan smirked at her. "You don't want a tamed scout. You want a personal slave." She squinted her eyes at him.

"I never said that," she said. Why did everything she say sound like hissing? "But whoever said being my slave would be . . . unpleasant?"

"Is seduction the only way you know how to get something you want?"

Her eyes flashed again. Tristan was amused at this, repeatedly. He gave her another smirk, and it just goaded her.

"You will do anything for Arthur, but for me, someone who truly cares for you, you run away." She shook her head. "Perhaps Germanius had the best way to tame you."

"I cannot be tamed," Tristan said, stepping towards her. She flinched. "Even by Arthur. And you don't care for me."

"Not anymore," she spat. "I will send all of Rome after you and your precious knights. You will pay for—"

Tristan seized her by her hair and pulled her after him. She shrieked and tried to pull away, but the pain and her vanity made her follow him. Tristan threw her to the ground by his belongings. He cut a section of rope from his pack and wrapped it tightly around Decia's wrists.

"What are you doing!" she shrieked again. "Release me! I am a lady—"

"You don't act like it," he muttered. Her jaw dropped. Tristan smirked at her. His eyes held only contempt and amusement at the reversal of so many things. He loaded his things on one of the guard's horses and then mounted his own. He grabbed Decia by the back of her willowy dress and pulled her in the saddle in front of him. She squealed when the fabric tore.

Tristan didn't care. He gave a low whistle to the pack horse and nudged his onward.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "All of Rome will come looking for me. The senate—"

Tristan sighed. Faster than she could have anticipated, Tristan hit her in the back of the head. The words stopped instantly, a blessed relief to his ears and sanity. She slumped in the saddle.

And the scout just smiled.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Decia had a terrible headache. Her first thought was to call for a bath and some fresh fruit. Then she opened her eyes.

Four men and a woman hovered over her. They were dressed in the manner of peasants, but not Roman. Their skin was darker, deeply tanned by a hot sun. They spoke rapidly to each other, in some tongue she did not comprehend. One reached out to touch her fine dress.

Decia shrieked and tried to move. It was then that she discovered her hands were bound, and her feet as well. And her dress was tattered, dusty and utterly ruined.

Someone was chuckling. She stilled and listened, looking for whoever was laughing at her. Her jaw dropped.

_Tristan._

_ He laughs?_

That didn't matter right now. He stood, speaking in the same weird tongue with one of the big foreigners. And he was watching her. The foreigner held his hand out, with a bag dangling from it. Tristan took the bag and nodded. He turned to Decia.

"Tristan!" she yelled. She hoped the venom in her voice translated to these savage foreigners. Instead, it seemed to make the men angry, and the female rolled her eyes.

"I wouldn't behave that way," Tristan said, his accent lilting a bit. "They're your masters now."

"What!"

Again, that smile. Before, it was so rare—nonexistent—but she saw it repeatedly when she least wanted to now. Tristan gave her a mock bow and turned his back on her.

Her blood boiled. _He wouldn't…_

"I suggest you learn their language first," the scout called over his shoulder.

"Tristan!"

He never turned back, though she screamed his name a dozen times after. The last thing she remembered before one of the men finally hit her over the head was Tristan riding off.


	20. Running Anew

**a/n:** Okay, this is a long one! Enjoy, and please, please, review! I love feedback, and need it now more than ever! Thanks!

**Running Anew**

The journey was much more peaceful without Decia. It still brought a smile to his face, remembering her disbelief, her new plight. And Arthur would be proud—at least he hadn't killed her.

Tristan figured he had two more weeks of travel before getting to Britain. He was in no hurry though. Part of that time would be by ship to get to the cursed island. At least this time he wouldn't be tied in the hull. Besides that, he decided to take his time. Something worried him, and he did not want to face it until he got closer.

So he lived off the land, killing a rabbit here and there, and sleeping whenever he chose. That wasn't terribly often. He was out in foreign lands, with no one but himself and two horses. He wasn't about to fall prey to anyone or thing, not now, and not after more than 16 years of servitude and hell.

The cry of a bird caught his attention. Tristan leaned back in his saddle and studied the sky. It was a small falcon, probably pretty young still. He wondered if his hawk was still alive. Was she still in Britain, or had she moved on to nest elsewhere?

He shook his head. It didn't matter, as long as she was free.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The sea tossed him about, not unlike the last time. Tristan discovered being in a cabin wasn't much better, and being topside only allowed him fresh air. He settled up there, despite the captain's protests as the weather turned badly.

His passage had been easy to procure with the proceeds from Decia's enslavement. With money and a confident air, the captain had not asked any questions. It seemed he didn't mind people traveling freely. Maybe it was a side effect of Arthur's rule.

The sea journey ended not a moment too soon, and Tristan savored it. He stared at the land. It was green and lush. Damp, as ever. Even chilly—winter was coming early.

He walked the rest of that day. Something about the land under his feet made him feel better. It offset his thoughts, to an extent.

He'd postponed them long enough. He was practically there, so close to 'home,' and he was still unsure.

How would he be accepted? Tristan wasn't an insecure man; he'd never needed another man or woman's approval before, but things had changed. Maybe that was what bothered him throughout his journey. He didn't know how things were. The last time he was here, Saxons crawled the land and he was certain he was going to die.

Now, who knew? Arthur was making changes, better ones, but what did that mean for Tristan? The Sarmatian scout scowled at the earth. The image of Arthur in Rome, after Tristan had slain Germanius, came back to mind. The knights all knew what he'd done—didn't they? They at least knew about Germanius, his guards, probably Asellio . . . . Realistically, Britain might not be the best place for an assassin.

He knew Arthur wouldn't punish him for what he'd done. Not by law anyway. But the scrutiny and guilt was already settling in, and he wasn't even at Hadrian's Wall yet!

The sounds of gurgling water reached his ears, and Tristan followed the noise as a distraction. It led him to a serene river, one he knew well. Green moss covered some of the rocks, and the water glided effortlessly downstream. It wasn't a large river. In fact, it was easy to cross, and by doing so, he would be at Hadrian's Wall within two days.

Tristan instead followed the river upstream. He could cross the river anytime he wanted.

He slept by the riverbank.

The next day started leisurely. He still avoided the thought of completely returning, so he bided his time by the river. He sat on a large boulder, one leg bent and propped up and the other dangling just above the water. He watched as fish and little critters went by.

The water was cold—nearly icy. Tristan splashed some over his face. He was almost tempted to bathe, but the cold wouldn't be so pleasant. He settled on removing his tunic and throwing some water over his chest and back.

He scratched as his scar, over his right shoulder. The mark of an assassin had healed, but the scar still itched. Tristan wondered why, or if it was all in his mind. _Manifestation of guilt_, he considered.

Suddenly, it was quiet. The birds weren't making any noise, and the river even seemed quieter. Tristan froze, shirt in hand, and listened for movement. His eyes caught it. Something in the trees, behind him and on the opposite side of the river. Slowly he reached for his sword.

An arrow hit right by his hand, clattering off the rocks, but effectively stopping Tristan. He glared at the trees. Another arrow hit by him, this one by his feet. They were warning shots, he knew, and maybe that was comforting. Although being caught unprepared was not . . .

He stood with his shirt dangling from his fist. He kept his arms at his side, and waited.

Slowly they emerged. Four blue warriors.

_Woads_ Instantly a bad taste came to his mouth, but he knew he should not provoke them. Arthur was their king now too, or so Tristan had heard. The four woads approached him, their bows taut and ready to fire on him.

"What is your purpose?" one of them asked. _Good question_, Tristan thought.

"I'm traveling through," he said. "I mean no harm." A drop of water collected at the end of one of his braids, and he watched it fall in front of his eyes.

"Your name?" another asked, this one a woman. Tristan didn't answer her, for his own reasons. Suddenly she kicked him behind the knee. Tristan fell to his knees and she held a dagger to his throat. The other three woads seemed unconcerned. "Your name."

He really didn't want to tell her, although now more to see if she would attack him. His eyes drifted to one of the men, rifling through his things. Tristan gritted his teeth.

"He's Sarmatian," the man called out. The woads instantly perked up at that. They looked to each other, and Tristan wondered what they were thinking. The woman with the dagger peered down at him.

"You'll come with us," she ordered. She stepped back, but the dagger was still out, and so were the men's bows and arrows. Tristan glared at them. They grabbed his things and his horses, and nudged him to cross the river. He sighed.

He pulled his shirt over his head. As he trudged through the chilly water, he wondered how easily he should go with them. _Depends on their intentions._ If they were loyal to Arthur, then that meant he was going to . . .

He sighed again. He still had two days.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The woads weren't friendly, but they didn't treat him like a prisoner. That was a nice change, Tristan thought. However, they didn't entirely trust him either. At night, they surrounded him and kept their weapons in hand. His own sword was in their possession, along with the few things he'd brought. They hadn't returned his weapons thus far, and he didn't expect them to until they arrive.

One thing he appreciated was their silence. They were good, at scouting, tracking, or whatever they were doing. They didn't engage him in useless prattle. Tristan felt nearly comfortable.

They moved quickly, and judging by the pace and their expressions, they wanted to be at the Wall by the next nightfall. They pressed hard, and kept Tristan with them. It amused him that they rode in a square around him. The woads kept this up throughout the next day, even as the Wall loomed into view.

Tristan pulled on the reins of his horse and stared ahead. The woads stopped as well, but more out of caution and suspicion. They did not understand this Sarmatian. Tristan didn't either. He took a few deep breaths.

He was back.

"Come," the woman said, urging Tristan forward. His horse responded before he did, and the group continued to the wall. As they approached, Tristan heard the familiar groan of the gates opening. It reminded him of all the times he was coming home from a mission.

Shouts rang out from above the gate, and over the land as they headed to the town. The woads encircled him tighter. It gave him the impression that he was more a prisoner now.

They stopped in the courtyard and handed off their horses to a stable hand Tristan didn't recognize. _Where's Jols?_

One of the woads pushed him forward, after the others. He shot a glare at him, but followed through the halls he knew too well. They were headed to the Round Table. Tristan's heart beat harder, wildly. His body tensed, and he clenched his fists. Suddenly he felt a little sick.

He swallowed it back as the woads stopped, just outside the room.

"Wait here," the first one said, and he slipped inside. The other three stood their ground around him.

The woad's words filtered through the door.

". . . found him two days from here . . ."

". . . a Sarmatian, we think . . ."

Tristan swallowed again. The door opened, and the woads nudged him inside. Tristan stumbled a little, again shooting them glares. When he looked forward, he stopped altogether. There stood the only Roman he respected, and by his sides three Sarmatians who lacked sense but made up for it in friendship. Even so, Tristan just nodded at them, and gave a plain greeting:

"Arthur."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

They'd just been discussing where to search for Tristan when the scout himself appeared. Arthur was surprised that four of his Woad scouts surrounded Tristan, but that passed quickly from thought as he and the knights stood and practically cheered his return.

They celebrated in the tavern, cramming around Tristan. The laughter rang out over the drunken words of the other inhabitants. The town knew the scout was back, and all eyes were on him, even if they were intoxicated. Arthur sat across from the scout. He watched as Gawain slapped him on the back.

"I'm sure glad you're back," he slurred. "I was a miserable scout." Tristan looked at him as if he'd said nothing of sense. He shifted his gaze to Arthur, who nodded.

"We made him the scout while you were gone," the king admitted. He saw a flicker of amusement in Tristan's eyes.

"Tell him about that village where you spied on that girl," Bors said a little loudly. Instantly, the knights broke out in laughter. Arthur smiled, and leaned back in his chair. Bors related the incident, but Arthur found himself just watching Tristan.

The scout had a trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were cool and detached. He sat a bit stiffly, and every time Bors or Gawain or Galahad slapped him on the back, Tristan tensed.

So far the conversation—or celebration—had not addressed anything of Tristan's absence or . . . activities while in Rome. Arthur certainly didn't want to bring it up, but his thoughts lingered on it. He knew Tristan was not to blame. If anything, he himself was. Were it not for his idolization of Rome, maybe things would be different. If Rome hadn't forced Tristan's initial servitude. . . . if Rome was full of good men, who would not kidnap and enslave someone already victim to a life of violence and death . . . .

The men exploded into laughter again, spraying drink across the table. Tristan didn't laugh, but the knights were too drunk to notice.

Guinevere walked into the courtyard of the tavern. Arthur straightened up and flashed a smile in her direction. The knights didn't even notice when he left them. He joined her away from the raucous celebration.

"And how is my lord this evening?" she asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

Arthur smiled and turned back to the table of knights.

"Better," he said. "He is home." Guinevere laid a hand on his shoulder, gently massaging it. She stood behind him, watching the scene.

"Does it relieve you?" she asked. "One of your knights is back. It's not Dagonet, nor Lancelot, but it _is_ one of them. Does it help?"

He found himself nodding. He never expected Dagonet or Lancelot to come back—somewhere inside of him he knew that was ridiculous. And Lancelot was his closest friend, his voice of reason. But Tristan was a silent support that he didn't recognize until he was gone.

Now that the scout returned, Arthur appreciated him more. He also wasn't blind to how Tristan was acting. Neither was Guinevere.

"He hasn't adjusted, has he?" she whispered in his ear. Arthur shook his head.

"He has endured much," he said softly. "From what the scouts reported, he was not eager to return."

"Part of that is just Tristan," she objected. Arthur nodded half-heartedly. "But perhaps he has not found himself."

Arthur frowned. "Found himself?"

His wife shrugged. "Help him find his place here. He needs a purpose."

"He's my scout," Arthur said. Tristan's purpose was clear, wasn't it? Guinevere leaned up to him and kissed him on the cheek.

"Then give him something to do."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Galahad was angry that Arthur was sending him out already. Tristan was a bit surprised at the assignment, especially since he knew there were plenty of woads around who could do it. But he wasn't about to complain.

He left the wall early, just the third morning after he'd arrived. He was to go to a village north of the wall, and see their status. Reports of Saxons caused some alarm throughout the land; they weren't all gone, but neither were they a terrible threat since last year's defeat.

His horse traveled steadily, galloping along the dirt paths etched into the land. Tristan set his attention to the environment. The trees swayed with the breeze. The wind was picking up—a storm, he judged, that'd hit in the evening. He frowned; he'd be drenched.

_Interesting_, he thought. It bothered him that the rain would make him uncomfortable. A month ago, he had bigger things on his mind. Freedom changed things, he supposed.

The call of a bird made him look up sharply. It was a hawk. It circled above him, and then swooped down at him. Tristan grinned and held out his arm.

"Eh!" he said. The hawk landed on his arm, and he felt the grip of her sharp talons through his tunic. He stroked the bird beneath the beak. "'Bout time you showed up." The hawk almost cocked her head to the side. Tristan huffed. If the hawk could speak, he could almost hear the words—where had he been? What took him so long to return? Tristan thought back to when he'd seen her last. It was when Germanius and his soldiers were caravanning to the ships. Along the way, he'd seen her, following him.

Tristan was glad she was alive. It was something that was the same. His hawk didn't judge him for what he'd done—probably didn't care at all. What did the knights think? He wasn't oblivious to Arthur's concerned looks. The Roman still thought about what he'd done. Did Galahad, Gawain and Bors think about his crimes as well?

The hawk nipped at his hand and cocked her head to the side, eyeing him. Tristan raised an eyebrow. She nipped at him again.

"Go," he said, and then he raised his arm for her to take flight. She floated in the air above him as he continued to the village.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

He was close to the village, that he knew. It was too quiet though. His hawk eagerly flew ahead for him. Tristan was grateful for it—he kept trying to listen, but he felt like it wasn't enough.

He was rusty. He hoped that didn't extend to using his sword, or throwing daggers—well, he wasn't too worried about that. He had plenty of practice in Rome.

The hawk squawked above him, a warning cry. Tristan reached for his sword. Adrenaline surged through him, which was another signal that something was—

A scream permeated the air. Tristan turned his mount sharply to the source of the scream. Ahead, beyond the trees and where the land opened to a clearing, were tattered remnants of a hut. And beyond it was a smoldering fire, where three men held swords at the throats of two villagers.

He kicked his horse a little harshly, but it got him moving quickly. Tristan let out a roar, drawing the men's attention. They were Saxons, judging by their size and their weaponry. One of them hit a villager over the head and turned to Tristan.

The villager fell to the ground, and the other one—a young girl—screamed. Tristan gripped the hilt of his sword tight and swung it over his head. He brought it down on the first Saxon, and the head split like a melon.

The second Saxon ran towards him, but stopped and readied himself. Tristan lunged forward in his saddle, his sword ahead and about to impale him, but suddenly the Saxon spun and hit Tristan in the back with the side of a crossbow. It sent Tristan off balance, even more so when his horse skidded to a stop.

Tristan fell to the side. The impact rolled him and he landed on his back. His hair covered his eyes. Tristan swatted the braids aside and started to stand when the two Saxons converged on him.

He kicked one's feet out from under him, and that's when he noticed at least a dozen more behind the other Saxon. They formed ranks behind the Saxon. Their weapons were drawn and by the looks on their faces, Tristan knew he didn't stand a chance.

Slowly, he got to his feet anyway.


	21. Set Backs

**a/n**: I am so, so sorry for the delay. I've been insanely busy, but I'm grateful for all the reviews and support. Here is a new chapter, and I'm working on the next. Please keep reviewing!

**Set Backs**

Tristan thrust his sword into one Saxon, which was a bad move on his part. It trapped the blade before he could pull it out of the man's gut. He kept one hand on the hilt, and turned and kicked another man. Two more Saxons challenged him, or rather, flung themselves on him. He fell beneath their weight.

It didn't bode well for him as they tried to subdue him with hits and kicks. He felt a blade nick his arm, but it was superficial. They were doing it on purpose—because they wanted him alive.

Tristan roared and pushed with all his might against the Saxons. He managed to roll out from under them and grabbed his dagger from his boat. That's when one of them pounced. Tristan held the dagger up, cutting into the man as he fell and pinned Tristan. The Saxon was going to die quickly, but unfortunately on top of Tristan. The scout gritted his teeth and tried to free himself when someone grabbed his arms.

They pulled him out, almost yanking his arms from their sockets. Tristan kicked at them.

Something slammed over his head. Tristan groaned, but he kept struggling. Images of the Saxons looming over him fuzzed in and out, but he fought to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. He kicked out and hit something, although he wasn't sure what. It was a return kick to his chest that finally did him in.

He slumped within the Saxons' hold.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

He had some disturbing flashbacks when he awoke after the Saxons captured him. Captured, not killed. He wondered if they would make him their assassin as well. Those were his first thoughts.

And then they started to taunt him. They tied his hands in front of him and kept him in the middle of the group. Night was falling, and it looked like spitting at him and kicking him would be the fireside entertainment.

_Better me than them_, he thought with a look to the two villagers. The man was still dazed from whatever the Saxons did to him earlier, but he was conscious enough to half-shield the young girl from the Saxons.

Tristan saw a few of the Saxons eye the girl, but so far she was untouched. She couldn't have been more than 12 years old, but judging by the stoic look on her face, she was accustomed to battle and hard life.

A Saxon approached him. Tristan eyed him warily, but didn't move. The Saxon backhanded Tristan, who promptly fell with his face to the dirt.

The group roared with laughter. He never understood why such a thing was funny, but then again, he was different from these men.

Wasn't he? For all his misdeeds, he wasn't a Saxon. Or was being an assassin worse?

Maybe he was meant to die at their hands—Germanius gave him an escape for awhile from the last Saxon who almost killed him. And here he was again. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he didn't think this was it.

Granted, the odds weren't great. The Saxons stripped him of his weapons and armor. He wore only his pants and tunic and boots, a fact that was making him shiver now. He tensed his body and stilled the shivering. Suddenly he was grabbed from behind.

Someone seized him by the hair and yanked his head back. He felt a sharp blade at his neck. The Saxon said something in his guttural language, but Tristan didn't understand. The Saxon said the same words, this time shouting. He couldn't answer, and the Saxon withdrew the knife and pushed him roughly forward.

Tristan landed on his chest, inches from the fire. He rolled away from it, again amidst laughter.

He wondered why none of them spoke the common tongue. Maybe these were simple soldiers, without a leader who normally would speak. _So where are the leaders?_ Maybe they hadn't regained that much since the incursion last year. He watched them. Half of them were well onto inebriation, and the other half was trying to catch up. Two soldiers drank limited amounts—they didn't gulp down whatever ale they had, but instead casually sipped at it. _They have the watch_. Tristan tilted his head to the side, studying them. They were large, partially because of the layers of fur and armor, but not unmanageable. One kept eyeing the others as they drank—longing for a carefree night as well?

But the second watchman was intelligent. Tristan could see it in his eyes. He examined everything, shooting glances from each man. His eyes settled on Tristan. The scout met the stare.

One of the drunken Saxons stood, making him look away. He clambered over to the villagers, and grabbed the man. Before the man could realize what was happening, the Saxon removed a dagger and slit the villager's throat.

The girl screamed. Tristan blinked—and the Saxons roared with laughter.

The villager fell to the earth, blood spilling from his neck. The girl backed away from him. Tristan knew how the eyes of the dead or dying haunted the living. The girl's screams dissolved into wails. They were soft in comparison to the raucous laughter of the Saxons. Tristan's stomach twisted, and he looked away.

He had to . . .

_What? Help? What good are you? You got captured._ The girl's wailing grew louder, and Tristan looked back to see a Saxon grab her. The Saxon held the sword to her throat as well, but glared at Tristan.

_Now what?_

They shouted something at him. It just sounded like grunting and hacking coughs, but Tristan knew they wanted him to speak. He just didn't know what. The Saxon shouted louder and started to press the sword into the girl's skin. Her shriek pierced the air.

Someone hit Tristan in the back, sending him again sprawled in the dirt. He looked back to see the second watchman, quietly standing over him but with the presence of a true threat.

"He asks if you serve Arthur, the Briton king," the watchman said. Tristan frowned. Why hadn't the man translated before? And if he could do so, was he more than a watchman?

He kicked Tristan in the face. Tristan's vision went blank at the sharp impact. He covered his cheek with his bound hands, trying to dull the pain.

"The girl will die if you do not answer."

Tristan glanced at the squirming girl. Her tear-streaked face made him feel his heart. He looked back to the watchman.

"I serve Arthur."

Seconds later, and the Saxons roared out ferociously. Apparently, they weren't fans of the king. He held an expressionless look on his face. The watchman nodded at the Saxon who held the girl. She was released and then the watchman grabbed Tristan by the hair and wrenched his head backwards.

"We kill Britons and Romans," he said. Something about the way he said it made Tristan instantly respect the man—not respect in the sense of honor, but he believed the man to follow through with his word. His eyes were intent but the rest of his face was controlled. His grip on Tristan, while painful, was purposeful.

_The leader_. Tristan had misjudged him as a simple watchman. The intelligence within him made him higher in status among the Saxons. Tristan held back from wincing.

"I am Sarmatian," he said. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would eventually be considered a Briton, under Arthur's rule. He didn't care if he returned to Sarmatia, not really.

The Saxon watchman, or leader as Tristan suspected, relayed the information to the others. More hisses came from them.

"One of Arthur's knights," the leader said. He shook his head, sending his hair in a wave across his face. The man's hair was stringy and almost ash in color, but not in an aged way. He was experienced, but relatively young. Tristan figured he was probably his age. "My men would love nothing more than to kill one of the famous knights. Certainly since the battle last year."

Tristan raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

"What would Arthur think, one of his invincible knights being caught?" Chuckles arose again amongst the Saxons. Tristan almost huffed. He could care less—Arthur too, probably, because being caught wasn't the worst thing to ever befall Tristan. "What would Arthur do to see you home safe? We hear the king has a soft spot for his knights."

Tristan looked away bored. His eyes found the girl, who was trying to control her whimpers. Her eyes bore into him, pleading for safety amidst the danger. The scout looked to something else. It ended up being the point of a sword.

"Does Arthur's _valiant_ knight have anything to say?" Though he mocked Tristan, the watchman leader didn't sneer at him. Somehow, he was being respectful _and_ insulting at the same time. Tristan held his peace.

The watchman released Tristan with a shove and tossed his sword to the side. The scout fell forward, but he made himself sit up on his knees. Still he said nothing. The watchman cocked his head to the side, and laughed.

"I doubt Arthur will be so silent."

-0-0-0-0-

It was his instincts that kept bothering him, but Arthur didn't listen until Tristan's hawk showed up.

He didn't expect Tristan to be back yet, and from what he could see, the scout hadn't returned. But the hawk circled frantically above the fort. He stared at the bird, wondering what was wrong.

_You sent him after an area with reports of Saxons. Alone._ He knew his reasons for that, but now readjusting Tristan to life seemed so trite. Why did he send the scout alone? _Tristan is always alone. It's what makes him more at ease._

And that was Arthur's goal.

His thoughts and borderline guilt were cast aside as shouts came from the courtyard.

Bors stormed through the grounds, something clenched in his fist. He held it up high for Arthur to see.

"Trouble," the bald man announced grimly. Arthur ran to meet him, and Bors handed him a crumpled letter. The parchment was damp and dirty, and the writing was scrawled in a most uneducated fashion. But the words demanded a seriousness that Arthur could not mistake.

It said that the Sarmatian knight would be killed as revenge for the deaths of Saxons. It said that Arthur would suffer more losses—the scout would just be the first. His body would arrive in a day or two.

Arthur stared blindly at the note as its message sunk in.


	22. Endurance

a/n: Thank you for the reviews! This is a pretty long chapter, but I hope it's all exciting and entertaining to you. Please review!

**Endurance**

"Arthur, if he's dead, so help me—" Gawain started. Galahad sneered at them both.

"Help _you_," he said to Arthur. Gawain shot a look at the youngest knight, but Galahad ignored him. This wasn't about not respecting the king; it was about Tristan's very life.

"I shouldn't have sent him," Arthur admitted, more to himself than for Galahad's benefit. He shook his head and spurred his horse faster. They rode quickly, the three knights and their king, and a small contingent of woads, just in case. Arthur almost left the woads behind, but prudence demanded some extra protection.

"Do you think they've killed him?" Bors asked. His voice was unusually quiet, and the rare thoughtfulness in his eyes scared Arthur. It was evidence enough for him.

He had to get to Tristan, alive.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

It was still night when Tristan awoke. Or maybe it was the next night. He winced at the pain coursing through his body, especially his head. Raising it, he saw that he was in a tent. He could hear a light snoring outside.

_Guard_, he thought. He tested his arms, but found them tied now behind his back, around a tall stake in the ground. He tried to slide himself up, but somehow the ropes were tied so he couldn't even do that.

He looked around the tent, and instantly noticed the girl from the village. Her eyes were wide, and she looked like she would cry at a slight breeze. Tristan said nothing, but stared at her. Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes began to flood.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked, hopeful to pass an emotional breakdown. She drew a sharp breath, which he heard, and stared back at him. He waited.

"Jaelynn," came a squeak of a voice. Her brown hair was a tangled mess, not that Tristan could compare, but she also had streaks of dirt and tears that added to the frightened image she exuded.

He nodded at the name. "They hurt you?" he asked next.

She hesitated. It was a stupid question—how had anything the Saxons not hurt her? But she shook her head.

Again he nodded.

"Was that your father?" That probably wasn't the most sensitive question, but Tristan had never been that way. He saw the girl's—Jaelynn's—eyes well up again, but she swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm sorry."

The girl didn't acknowledge that. She bowed her head, avoiding the scout. Tristan wondered how the children of those he'd killed reacted. Some how, he thought they would be less . . . composed than this girl. He imagined more wailing, not that he wished it, but his guilt demanded such an idea.

Jaelynn interrupted his thoughts.

"Will they kill us?" she asked.

Tristan almost immediately said 'yes.' He had to bite his tongue as reason set in on behalf of the girl. He settled on a slightly tamer version.

"Probably, me at least. They may let you live," Tristan said. The girl's eyes stretched wider still. _Maybe she didn't expect that truth._

_ She probably wanted comfort. _Tristan wasn't much good in that area. He glanced at the front of the tent where he heard snoring.

"Can you get out of your bindings?" he asked. The girl moved a bit, bringing her hands up to view. Being bound with her hands in front of her would be useful, though Tristan didn't hold his breath for success. She shook her head.

"Can you come over here?" Tristan asked next. Suddenly she drew back, not trusting him. But a few moments later, she inched towards him. He nodded to her. "See if you can loosen the ropes."

It took several moments, but soon she escaped his view and began tugging at his bonds. Tristan flexed his hands.

"A bit more," he said. He felt the girl jerk back at his words. _She's frightened of you._ He didn't blame her. But she tugged and pulled, and Tristan found he was able to squeeze his hand through the loops in the rope. The rope scraped his skin, and he felt his joints pop out of place, but he at least had a hand free.

That was something. He turned and grinned at the girl. She shrank back; Tristan wiped away any expression.

"Thanks," he said. He pulled his other hand free, then motioned for the girl to come closer. He nodded at the ropes binding her. Quickly he freed her. She stared at him the whole time, a look of wonderment and fear ever present.

Tristan stood, his eyes fixed on the source of the snoring on the other side of the tent. He wondered if the night watch was still awake. It wouldn't help to be caught again. Suddenly a wave of dizziness passed over the scout. His body rocked back and forth like a ship on the sea. He steadied himself, and shook away the feeling.

"Will you take me with you?"

Tristan turned to the girl. He was a good three heads taller than her, and as he stood, she seemed even younger and more fragile. _Does she think I'll just leave her?_

In times passed, he might have.

Tristan nodded once.

"Stay here. I'll call for you when it's time." He turned to leave.

"What is your name?" she asked, a little too loudly. Tristan glanced hurriedly at the front of the tent, then back to the girl. Jaelynn bowed her head, recognizing her error.

"Stay back, hidden," the scout said. He turned to the front of the tent and neared it. At the last moment, he slightly inclined his head back and said: "Tristan."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jaelynn smile shyly.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

The guard outside the tent did not wake or stir when Tristan killed him. The scout used the man's dagger, and now searched for the next target.

The Saxons slept heavily, but he knew they weren't all asleep. There had to be a watch, and he didn't want to alert them to his limited freedom. Searching the dark camp, Tristan tried to find a horse or his weapons. Neither was obvious. He moved around the camp, as stealthily as possible. When he came upon a sleeping Saxon, he wondered if he should kill him.

Tristan killed three men that lay outside, exposed. The more he killed, the less he might have to face later. No sooner than he thought that, he felt the tip of a cool blade at his neck.

"Ambitious knight, aren't you?" Tristan slowly peered through the darkness. Standing to his side was the Saxon watchman, the leader. Suddenly he shouted something, and the camp stirred. The soldiers were startled, but quickly got on their feet, battle-ready.

Tristan swallowed. The fires were stoked and in the increased light, he could see two Saxons as they discovered their slain brothers. They yelled out in anger. Time was running out.

Tristan twisted away from the leader's sword and dropped to the ground. He kicked the leader behind the knee and brought the dagger to the man's neck. The leader's eyes widened, surprised at the knight's deftness, but then an icy stare replaced the look. Tristan seized him and brought the man's body in front of his, a human shield. It was a cowardly move, but Tristan had no choice.

The soldiers saw all this, and raised their weapons.

"Tell them not to move," Tristan said in the man's ear. The leader snorted at the demand, but Tristan was unfazed.

The leader shouted something. Tristan watched as the soldiers moved around, but none of them lowered their weapons. He saw one go for the tent where the girl was. Tristan's breath stopped as he went in and reemerged with the girl in his grasp.

"They'll kill her," the leader said smugly. "Submit, and the girl lives." Tristan felt a twitch go through him. His mind flashed to Germanius, to Asellio, to Decia. The threat was always the same. He pursed his lips together to the point of pain.

The soldier came closer, grinning like an idiot as he held the whimpering girl. Jaelynn's eyes pleaded with Tristan—not for anything that he could tell other than she was afraid, and sought him as comfort.

He might die as he stood here, but for once he would rather not. As glorious as death used to be, he'd seen it too often—dealt it too often. It was an honor that would be easier for him.

But it would not leave Jaelynn any honor. Tristan would leave her to death, perhaps dishonor at the hands of the Saxons. He could not allow that. He blinked the girl's image away and glared at the leader that he held.

"It's never that simple," Tristan said, and then he shoved the leader to the ground and threw the dagger at the soldier holding the girl. The dagger sunk into the man's head. Jaelynn gasped but looked to Tristan. He nodded at her, and she ran.

The leader snarled and kicked Tristan in the stomach. Tristan fell back. He scrambled to ready himself, but suddenly he was surrounded. A soldier swung at him with a blade, catching his shirt. Tristan spun on a heel and caught the man's wrist. He twisted hard, snapping the bones and capturing the sword. Everyone dove at him from there.

He blocked the attacks, but not all. He felt a cut or two, but put any pain from his mind. The Saxons roared around him, and it was deafening. They weren't playing either—they were trying to kill.

For a brief moment, Tristan saw the leader, smiling at the fight. The scout sunk his sword into one man's gut, and the smile faltered. The blade was trapped, but Tristan caught a downward blow aimed at his head from another attacker. He elbowed the soldier, and dodged another one's sword. That sword impaled a fellow Saxon.

He was winning, he knew. It was folly to think so, but the bodies that he tripped over were evidence that he might do some damage. Survival wasn't necessarily the victory for him, if Jaelynn stayed away. _At least the girl escaped._

Another man charged him, slamming into Tristan's body. Tristan hit the ground and skidded over a few bodies. He looked up to see the leader with a crossbow in hand. The bolt flew and buried itself into Tristan's chest. He saw nothing for a moment as a white flash of pain and heat seared him. Just as quickly, it was gone, and Tristan got to his feet. The bolt was in the left side of his chest, embedded in his ribs, or so he suspected. He felt himself weakening, but discipline urged him on.

Blood dripped down his skin and reddened his thin shirt. Tristan fought on. It was automatic for him, but not as graceful or deadly. He was waning.

The neigh of a horse came from behind him. Tristan whirled around, expecting an attack. Instead he saw the girl, hanging onto the horse's mane for dear life. In her hand hung his sword, and he recognized some of his other things tied to the saddle. Jaelynn reached out with the sword, as if to give it to him.

Tristan side-stepped a thrust from a soldier to his already injured chest. He turned quickly and grabbed Jaelynn by the wrist. He hoped her hold on the horse was strong enough. Tristan jumped, and pulled himself behind the girl and onto the horse. Quickly he seized control of his curved sword and brought it just over a Saxon's shoulders.

He kicked the horse, and it darted away from the camp. Tristan let the horse run full-speed, even though each time the animal's hooves connected with the earth, it sent a jolt of pain in the side of Tristan's chest.

After an hour of riding, and sensing no one behind them, Tristan stopped the horse. He half-fell as he dismounted. Jaelynn looked at him, her eyes wide and docile with worry. She stayed atop the horse until Tristan motioned for her to come down.

The bolt was embedded deeply within him. His stomach churned, but he knew if he purged anything, it would only aggravate his wound. Tristan shook aside braids that blocked his view, and studied his chest.

"Can you get it out?" Jaelynn asked timidly. Tristan didn't answer. Two more inches, and the bolt would have missed him. As it was though, it was painful enough to have warranted a dead-center hit on him.

He gently touched the reddened mass, and felt a surge of fire beneath his skin. He clamped down on his tongue and waited for the pain to subside. _Take it out. You cannot ride with it sticking out of you._

It would bleed more, but Tristan considered that the lesser of two evils. He wrapped his hand around the bolt and drew a deep breath. It couldn't hurt more than an arrow. Bolts did not have the large arrowheads. They were straight, sharp and dense, and hopefully less painful to remove than an arrow.

He shut his eyes and pulled hard.

A scream echoed over the land.

Tristan fell to his knees, heaving for breath and control over the intense torment. The bolt wasn't out. He'd withdrawn it a bit, but he could feel it at least two inches within him. The earth around him moved, waving up and down almost like the sea. He couldn't focus.

"Tristan," he heard a young voice say. It sounded familiar. _Jaelynn_ He opened his eyes to see her reach out. He watched as both her hands took hold of the bolt. She bit her lip and suddenly she yanked hard on the bolt.

Another scream, and both girl and knight fell to the earth. This time, however, Jaelynn held the bolt, bloodied but free from the scout's body. Tristan bordered on unconsciousness. His eyes rolled back dizzily.

_Stay awake! The Saxons!_

He tiredly opened his eyes again, this time seeing Jaelynn trying to steady him. He felt himself stop swaying as he knelt on the earth. Jaelynn went to the saddle and removed his heavy coat and an extra shirt. She ripped the shirt, and Tristan vaguely felt the shreds being tied around his wound. Soon the coat found its way over his head. He was still hot from battle, or maybe fever, but the coat comforted him.

"Tristan?"

He wondered if the girl had been talking for some time. To answer, the scout stood.

And almost fell. She steadied him.

"Come," Tristan said, or hoped he said aloud. He gritted his teeth together and mounted the horse. He stretched the wound, and again it was agonizing. But he made it up, and stayed in the saddle.

Tristan reached down to Jaelynn. She took his hand and swung up behind him. They rode on. Tristan couldn't admit it, but he was grateful for the girl as she steadied him during the journey.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

He felt better a few hours after the bolt was gone. After wavering on the edge of passing out, Tristan was awake now. He hadn't spoken to the girl, but he didn't see a need to.

The sound of thundering hooves coming towards them brought Tristan's adrenaline flooding through him. He drew his sword and squared his shoulders to block Jaelynn from view.

He waited, and the thought passed through his mind that he hoped it wasn't the Saxons.

It wasn't.

_Arthur!_

The king and the knights came around a bend along the wooded path, and behind them several woads. Tristan released a breath that he'd been holding, and lowered his sword.

"Who are they?" the girl asked. Tristan glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Arthur."

The king charged ahead, racing quickly to Tristan. He stopped suddenly at the knight's side.

"Tristan!" he exclaimed. "You're alive!" Tristan raised an eyebrow at that. "The Saxons—"

"Behind us," he said, "what's left of them." Bors came up next and chuckled.

"Good ol' Tristan," the bald one said. "We should have known they couldn't kill you."

"We received a message that you'd been caught," Arthur said. "We feared the worst."

Tristan shrugged. It immediately hurt his wound, and he cursed his stupidity, but held his emotionless expression on his face. Gawain and Galahad circled them all, and Tristan could sense their questions upon seeing Jaelynn.

"Saxons killed her father," Tristan filled in. "The village is destroyed."

Galahad muttered something, and Arthur looked pained.

"Your mother?" Arthur asked her. Jaelynn glanced at Tristan, then shook her head. "You'll find safety with us at Hadrian's Wall."

"I'll continue to the wall," Tristan said. He didn't want Arthur to ask him to stay and scout. He couldn't, and he wasn't about to admit it. Gingerly, he touched his chest, but not so the knights would notice.

Arthur nodded. "We'll find the rest of the Saxons." He signaled to a Woad, who came forward. "Take three men and follow Tristan back. Keep him safe."

Tristan shot a glare at the king, but Arthur pretended not to notice. The scout kicked the horse in motion. He felt Jaelynn's arms grip around him tighter.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

As soon as they reached the wall, Tristan wanted nothing more than to sleep. He directed a woad to take the girl to Vanora. _She'll know what to do._

Jaelynn called after him.

"Tristan!"

He turned and waited. The girl shrunk back into her shy shell when he looked back. It took a few moments until she was ready, but she smiled at him.

"Thank you."

Tristan nodded and left. It dawned on him while he weaved his way to his room that Jaelynn had done just as much to save him as he had her. If not for her and that horse in the middle of battle . . .

Tristan made it to his room without further detainment. He shed his coat and bloody shirt. The wound bled through the bandages the girl had fashioned, but it was slowing. Tristan threw some water on his face and onto his wound. Satisfied enough for now, he fell onto his bed. He didn't bother to consider how foreign the room was to him. It didn't matter right now.

He slept.


	23. And Now

**And Now**

They'd managed to find the remaining Saxons later that day, and it was invigorating. Arthur hated to admit that killing felt so good, but with such an enemy, who had threatened his knights and his country, he could not help it.

They rode back quickly to Hadrian's Wall. Life at the wall bustled as if nothing had happened, although Arthur could see the relieved look on Vanora's face as she waited with her kids for Bors. Guinevere too waited, and her face glowed when she saw him.

She hugged him tight. Arthur smelled her hair. No matter what the season, it always smelled of flowers. He loved it.

"You're back," she stated. Arthur smiled.

"How are things here?" he asked as they walked arm in arm. Guinevere nodded at the girl that Tristan brought. Jaelynn stood by the brood of kids, smiling more reservedly than the others.

"Vanora has agreed to take in Jaelynn," the queen said. "She will adjust, I think. It's been less than a day, and she already chatters with the other girls."

Arthur smiled. He was relieved that she might move beyond the grief of her parents' death. Just then, the girl looked and saw him. She moved away from the hoard surrounding Bors and went to the king.

As soon as she reached him, she faltered. Her eyes found the ground, and Arthur could feel her uneasiness. Gawain just then came up to them, and that only seemed to make the girl more nervous.

"Jaelynn, isn't it?" Arthur asked by way of greeting. It broke the ice enough that the girl nodded.

"Yes, sire," she said. She opened her mouth, and then quickly shut it. Arthur smiled again.

"What do you wish to ask?" The girl was adorable, especially since Vanora had her bathed and her hair combed. Her brown hair was now light and wavy, and her eyes were large with wonderment. She swallowed visibly and gathered her courage.

"Is Tristan all right?" she asked. Arthur tilted his head to the side and glanced at Gawain. _Why would she ask—_ "Did his wound stop bleeding?"

Gawain's eyes lit with angry fire, probably a reflection of the concern in Arthur's. Jaelynn shrank back.

"He was wounded?" Arthur asked. Jaelynn nodded.

"He was shot with a crossbow."

Arthur looked sharply to Gawain, and nodded for him to go. Gawain shot out of the open area and through the town.

Jaelynn shrank back again at their reactions.

"It is all right, Jaelynn," Arthur said. "We didn't know he was injured, but we'll take care of him."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

A rush of air chilled Tristan. He groaned and reached for a blanket to pull over himself.

"Tristan!"

He bolted upright at the shout, and immediately reached for his sword. Before he could get to it, Gawain stood before him and pushed him back so he lay on his bed.

"You idiot!" Gawain shouted. "Why didn't you tell us you were injured?"

Tristan still felt disoriented. Even so, his muscles were tense, ready to fight.

"Gawain?" he clarified.

"Have you seen a healer?"

Suddenly the knight was prodding at Tristan's wound. The pain caught up with him. He groaned and pulled away.

"I didn't think so," Gawain said. "Do you have a death wish? Stupid scout . . ." Tristan shut his eyes and tried to ignore Gawain's whining. He just wanted to sleep.

"Go away," he mumbled. His head hurt again, and he felt stiff and sore all over.

"You're bruised, cut up and you have a hole in your chest," Gawain persisted. "I'm getting a healer."

"Make sure it's a silent one," Tristan said at the knight's back. Before he shut his eyes again, he saw Gawain glare at him.

Tristan smiled and fell back asleep.

When he awoke again, Jaelynn was at his side and Gawain stood leaning against the wall behind her. Judging by the light, it must have been morning. He started to sit up when he felt the cloth on his chest. He looked down to see fresh bandages and not as much dirt that he remembered from his journey. He also saw several bruises and shallow cuts.

"You've looked better," Gawain said with a chuckle. Tristan grunted. He pushed himself back so he leaned while sitting up.

"The Saxons?" Tristan asked. Gawain just smiled. It was answer enough. He turned his gaze to Jaelynn. "You okay?"

The girl nodded. "They were mad that you didn't tell them you were hurt."

Tristan grunted at that too. "So you told them."

She looked to the floor. Gawain shot him a look, and Tristan gave a huff of laughter.

"It's all right."

Jaelynn looked up at him with hopeful eyes. A knock at the door drew all their gazes. Vanora peaked in.

"Come, Jaelynn," she said, half-scolding. She smiled at Tristan. "We're glad you're back—again."

Jaelynn stood and as soon as Vanora could grab her arm, both females disappeared.

"I think she's a bit taken with you," Gawain said.

"Vanora?"

Mirthful laughter shone in Gawain's eyes. "Jaelynn." Tristan cleared his throat and adjusted his position. "She keeps asking about you."

"Yeah, well, we survived a camp of Saxons together," he tried to defend nonchalantly. He hoped the girl didn't fancy him. That would just be awkward, especially since he was at least fifteen years older than she.

"She blushes every time your name is mentioned," Gawain added. Tristan rolled his eyes.

"Are you here to annoy me?"

Gawain laughed. "No. But it serves you right. You scared all of us."

Tristan shrugged that off with a wince. Pain flared in his chest. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"No," the knight agreed too quickly. "You did pretty good. There wasn't much left of the Saxons." Gawain studied the scout. Tristan hated the scrutiny, but he knew Gawain was here for a reason. He waited. "If you'd died . . . "

Tristan kept his eyes on his chest. He pretended to study the bandaging and ignored Gawain as best he could.

"I can't speak for the others," Gawain started again. "But I wouldn't want you dying and thinking I hated you for what happened to you in Rome. Before you left to scout the Saxons, I didn't have time to tell you that."

He winced before he could hide it. The mention of Rome reminded him of almost killing Gawain in the middle of that night, and the rest of Gawain's words sounded an awful lot like pity.

Gawain went for the door. "Rest. If you feel up to it tonight, join us at the tavern."

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Galahad smacked away the froth on his lips and shot his best seductive look to a barmaid. She smiled briefly at him, and turned to another table. Galahad shrugged. Some things never changed.

The other knights were occupied with something or other. Galahad hadn't seen them since he returned from killing the Saxons. The youngest knight took a nap, ate some food and now enjoyed his nightly ritual getting imbibed. From somewhere he couldn't pinpoint, a woman sang, and men laughed.

Someone plopped down next to him. It took him a moment to turn his head and see who. _Gawain._

_ And Tristan._ He saw the scout wince as he sat. Seeing the scout, here and in the flesh, brought a bad taste to his mouth. Galahad sobered up a little bit, knowing it couldn't be that way. _Shouldn't_. Whatever happened, happened. As long as Tristan didn't continue to be the . . . way he was in Rome, Galahad could accept him.

_Can't I?_ But Tristan didn't seem to reserve such barbarianism for Rome. He saw the remains of the Saxons—for an injured man, he certainly killed his share. _Isn't that good? Otherwise he'd be dead._

Gawain slapped Galahad on the back and stood. He made his way to the barmaids to get some drinks. Galahad swallowed. He hadn't wanted to be left with Tristan.

He glanced at the scout. Tristan rubbed his side. After a few seconds, he looked at Galahad through his messy braids covering his face. Galahad's eyes shot towards a new direction. He scowled when he heard the scout snicker.

"Want me to move?" Tristan asked, but not sincerely. Galahad scowled harder and sighed, frustrated.

"Why do you always torment me?" the youngest knight shot back.

"Easy target."

Galahad glared at Tristan, but the scout merely grinned before grabbing Galahad's mug and taking a long sip. Galahad shook his head.

"Thinking?" Tristan said next. Never in all the years he'd known the man had Tristan said so much—or initiated a conversation. Galahad stared dumbly at the scout. Tristan just stared back, waiting. Several moments passed before he found his voice.

"Yeah."

Tristan nodded and drank some more. Galahad cleared his mind and throat.

"I heard you're hurt," he said. "Feeling any better?" Tristan's mouth upturned to a smirk.

"That's not what you were going to ask."

_Stupid scout!_ Or not so stupid, which aggravated Galahad. He tried to play off Tristan's words, but then he felt that vapid stare on him again.

"Fine," Galahad said, taking his mug from Tristan and slamming it to the table. "I'm not comfortable around you. You've always enjoyed killing, Woad, Saxon or Roman, and now you're back from Rome where you were an assassin, and you're back from a personal slaughtering trip. And I _don't_ like it!"

He snatched his drink up quickly as he instantly wondered why he admitted all that. He was trying to accept Tristan, wasn't he? _Yeah, but then he kept egging me on._ Even now, the scout had a hint of a grin on his face. Galahad glared at him, but suddenly froze. In Tristan's eyes was the barest semblance of . . . _sorrow?_

"I don't blame you," Tristan said. And that was it. _For what?_ He voiced the question, perplexed. "For not liking me."

Galahad stared. "I—I don't _not_ like you. I … I don't like what you do." _Right?_ Tristan didn't reply. His eyes found something across the tavern that kept his interest, but Galahad knew him well enough to know he was still paying attention to the here and now. The young knight sighed.

"Did you . . . enjoy it?" Galahad asked. He expected his hesitation to draw a smirk or haughty look from Tristan, but the scout shifted his gaze to the ground. Galahad wondered if he knew what he meant. "I mean, Rome, and what you did."

Was he crossing a line now? He'd always accused the scout of blood lust. He'd seen it hundreds of times in battle. But Tristan eventually shook his head.

"Killing like that is different than battle," he said. "No honor."

_Honor? That's what Tristan fought for?_ Somehow that startled Galahad. He always assumed it was the thrill of ending life. It made Galahad shudder just thinking about it.

But it gave him new respect for the scout.

"Was it hard?" he asked.

Tristan blinked. His attention went back to the tavern's activity. Gawain was coming back, but stopped to flirt with a girl.

"No," Tristan said softly. Galahad swallowed dryly. It wasn't the answer he wanted, nor expected, but he knew the scout wasn't boasting. Remorse oozed from the man's voice. Galahad glanced at his half-full mug, and slid it across the table to Tristan. The scout caught it, then looked to the young knight.

"Drink up," he said with a nod to Gawain. "There's more coming." A small smile crept onto the scout's face, and he nodded back. As he drained the last of the mug, Galahad felt more at ease.

Neither had said much, but it was enough for now. They waited for Gawain to rejoin them and then drank the night away.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

Morning came a little too early, but Tristan ignored the slight headache and got up anyway. It was peaceful this early, with few of the villagers awake. As he walked down to the stables, the smell of fresh bread reached his nose. The fine, light powder of flour blew in the air, near the baker. He ducked his head in, grabbed a small loaf of bread and tossed a coin in the general direction of the baker.

He chewed slowly as he surveyed the town. It'd grown a lot over the last year. He saw new homes, new areas where business thrived during the day, and new fields in the distance.

He exhaled, and noticed a white puff of air against the cold morning. It would warm up later, but for now, he ate another chunk of bread and crossed his arms. Tristan walked to the stables. As he neared it, he heard the flutter of wings above him. He looked up, seeing his hawk. He quirked a slight grin and tossed the rest of his bread in the air. The hawk saw it keenly, and swooped down to catch it before it could even start to fall. Tristan grinned again and went into the stables.

The smell of hay filled his senses next, that and horses. His own horse tilted its head when it saw him. He didn't know the horse's name—he'd conveniently taken ownership of it when he got to Britain. The horse knew to respond whenever Tristan said, "Eh!" and that was good enough for now. The animal had been groomed and chewed happily on some food. Tristan stroked the horse's neck and patted it.

He climbed up on the pile of hay and then up to the rafters of the stable. His movements were gingerly done, with manageable but sharp pains tugging at his chest. Once situated, he removed his sword. It was dirty, and he clenched his jaw at the sight of a chip in the metal.

_At least you have it._ He could thank Jaelynn for that. He halted as he thought of the girl, and what Gawain had said. He hoped the girl didn't fancy him. It was something he just didn't want to deal with. _Maybe if she were at least ten years older . . ._

He scowled at his sword and then removed a rag from his coat. He started to clean the blade, wiping it length-wise first, and then slowly polishing it in circles over the surface. Blood and dirt slowly dissipated, except for a few stubborn clumps. With a clean section of the rag, he dabbed it against his tongue and then polished the blade some more.

His attention was so fixed on his sword that he didn't notice Arthur until the king stepped into the stables. Arthur didn't notice him though. He looked around as if to ensure he was alone. Then he leaned against a stall and bowed his head.

Tristan watched for several moments before turning back to his sword. He let his movements be larger, making his clothes rustle enough that Arthur gasped.

"Tristan!"

He turned to face the king from his rafter. He nodded and continued cleaning his sword. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur open his mouth, shut it, try again, and shut it again. The king had that look on his face—the sad, pitiable, I-don't-know-what-to-say look. Tristan knew what was coming, and he almost sighed aloud. He'd had enough sensitive, heartfelt talks over the last two days. He didn't really want another.

But Arthur bowed his head again, just for a moment yet long enough that Tristan wondered if he offered up a prayer.

"I've wanted to speak with you for some time," he began. Tristan almost groaned. "I feel I am to blame for all you have endured."

"Don't trouble yourself," Tristan said quickly. He moved towards the hay and lowered himself to the ground gently. Arthur shook his head as Tristan took a few steps to face the king.

"My faith in Rome . . ." Arthur's eyes couldn't look at him directly. Arthur was normally so composed, but maybe catching him off guard, so obviously before he thought through this . . . Tristan felt sorry for him. "I shouldn't have sent you alone." He'd jumped to more recent events. Tristan wondered what thoughts crossed the king's mind between his voiced words.

Suddenly he remembered how he felt when he was in Rome. When he killed Germanius, with no remorse or thought but vindication, right in front of Decia. And unknowingly with Arthur watching. How ashamed he felt, like when the soldiers apprehended him when he snuck into their quarters in Rome. How alienated he felt . . . he could have sworn Arthur would never understand. And yet here they were, with Arthur nearly apologizing.

Tristan laughed. Arthur looked up sharply.

"Funny," he said. "I thought you all wouldn't want me back." The king stared for several moments until his words sunk in.

"Tristan, we never--we tried to find you. Life was incomplete, knowing that you weren't around. It was as if you disappeared, and--" Arthur suddenly choked on his words. Looking at his eyes, Tristan saw they were moist. The scout sighed.

"What's happened, happened," Tristan said. "I don't blame anyone but me for what I did. And for anything that was done to me, well… I only blame Germanius." He grinned. "And he's dead."

Arthur still stared. And then suddenly, he laughed. His shoulders shook with relief and emotion. He looked to the scout

"I'm glad you're back." Arthur straightened his posture, regaining his sense of dignity and presence. "More than you know." He clapped Tristan on the shoulder, and left the stables.

As soon as he left, Tristan groaned at the pain Arthur's move had made to his chest. He clutched the side of his chest and sat back against the hay. He held up his sword to the streams of morning light that began to pour in.

_Good enough_.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

A week had gone by before he realized it. What was sad was that Tristan hadn't really done anything the whole time. His chest was healed enough now, though. At least he could train again.

The villagers--Britons, Woads, former Romans, whatever—lived peacefully enough. They recognized Tristan now. As he walked through the growing town, nods were thrown in his direction. He nodded back, never stopping to chat. He'd been through a lot, but he hadn't changed _that_ much.

His clean sword felt slightly heavy in his hands, a sure sign that he was out of practice. Tristan stretched his side and then his arms before swinging the blade once above his head. It tugged at the healing wound, but not more than he could bear.

_Good_, he thought. A frigid breeze swept through him, making his grip tighten on the sword and his muscles spasm slightly. He shook it off and readied himself.

Suddenly he launched an attack. No one was around, but he fought invisible foes. Tristan parried and then brought his sword above his head to block a blow. He pivoted around and slashed down. It would have cut nicely into an enemy's back.

He turned quickly and continued his battle. His feet danced over the dirt. Slowly, Tristan shut his eyes, and let natural instinct take over. His mind wandered.

Germanius was cut down again, and then Asellio. Not close-range murders, but honorable combat. In Tristan's mind, the two old men were actually good fighters, enough that Tristan felt proud about defeating them. He saw Ortegius, and quickly dispatched him. _No sense wasting time or skill on that one._

The sound of someone shrieking near him startled Tristan out of his practice battle. His eyes shot open. His sword arm had carried past a figure before him, the arc of his swing just inches from her body.

_Jaelynn_. She stood in front of him, her eyes wide.

Tristan quickly lowered his sword.

"You okay?" he asked quickly. She just nodded, but her face was white. _You almost killed her. Or at least scared her near death._ His eyes traveled over her body, making sure she was okay. He saw a distinct cut to the stomach of her dress.

He dropped his sword like a hot iron and went to her. His hands probed at the cut before he realized what it looked like. Jaelynn froze, but Tristan's eyes were glued to the torn fabric of her dress and—

He sighed in relief. No blood, no sliced flesh.

Then _he _froze. His fingertips stiffened just over her skin. Quickly, he stepped away.

"Sorry." He cleared his throat and tried to block out Gawain's words again. "What are you doing out here?"

Jaelynn crossed her arms over her ripped dress and shrugged. She didn't say anything, which surprised Tristan. _Now what? _Since the Saxon camp, he hadn't really spoken with Jaelynn. He saw her with Vanora's kids during the week, but not much else. _I never thanked her._ Now was as good a time as any.

"You're very brave," he blurted out. It sounded a bit condescending, like he was speaking to a child. Jaelynn was 12 or 13, and she shifted uncomfortably at his words. Tristan grimaced and tried again. "You should have run away from the camp. I thought you would."

She cocked her head to the side, wondering where he was going.

"They would have killed you," she said hesitantly. He nodded.

"But they didn't," he filled in, "'cause you came back." She curled her toes in her shoes and fidgeted a bit. Her brown hair bounced around her pale face. It made him smile, but he hid it. "Do you have any experience healing?"

She looked up sharply.

"I'm 13," she said, as if that was answer enough. Tristan nodded it off.

"You handled the bolt well enough. I thought you might have been taught." She bristled at that, and Tristan saw the tugs of a proud smile. "You could learn, if you want." He tried not to show that he noticed her delight. He picked up his sword and sheathed it in the scabbard on his back. When he looked again, Jaelynn was staring at his movement.

He saw the fascination, admiration and infatuation. Her eyes lit up, and he saw that shy smile again. He sighed quietly to himself. Hopefully she would grow out of this.

"Go on home," he said. "Vanora'll be looking for you." She nodded despite a quirk of a disappointed look on her lips, and quickly she ran away. She glanced back at him.

Tristan sighed again. He didn't really thank her, and he didn't really drop any hints to give up her young fantasy.

He shrugged. He had other things to do for now and other people to see.

And he had plenty of days ahead for it all.

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a/n: And that would be the ending. I struggle with endings the most. I want to say a lot and have a lot resolved but without it being too neat or cheesy. Hopefully you all liked this. Please let me know—reviews are welcome 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Thanks for reading and your support!

DFerveiro


	24. Sequel note

A/N:

Hello everyone. Thank you for your patience. And yes, I've decided to write again.

I'm continuing this story, or rather, developing a sequel—it's called "Persistent Knight." Not the most original title, but oh well. I'm debating if it should have some OC romance at all (although it will mainly be action/adventure). Is there an interest for that? With or without Jaelynn as the love interest? I'm a little uneasy/weirded out with any reciprocated interest between Jaelynn and Tristan, since she's a good 10-15 years younger than Tristan. But I could always create a love interest—

Let me know, b/c I'm torn.

Thank you!

DFerveiro


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